


Broken Soldiers

by LeahWrites (Leah1967)



Category: Captian America: The First Avenger - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Comics
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky barnes/reader - Freeform, Bucky x You - Freeform, Creating the Winter Soldier, Eventual Smut, F/M, HYDRA!reader, Hidden Relationship, Hydra (Marvel), James “Bucky” Barnes - Freeform, Marvel - Freeform, Marvel Reader Insert, NSFW, No use of y/n, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, mcu - Freeform, possible trigger warnings, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-08-28 20:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah1967/pseuds/LeahWrites
Summary: Here for the smut? (Or wish to avoid it?) Chapters 1 and 13 are nsfw.—You were raised to be a perfect soldier.Controlled by HYDRA.But once landed with a mission of creating someone who’s face you can remember but not place, emotions soon bleed into battles and together, the reader and Bucky Barnes only hope they survive the horrific world of HYDRA and Soviet Russia. Based on the MCU history of the Winter Soldier.





	1. In The Beginning

**Book I of the Killing Winter Series**

**— Broken Soldiers —**

_______________________________

 

 

 

**— New York • 1942**

 

The bar downtown was packed to the brim, voices of all kinds shouting and conversing full heartedly. The mass consisted of young men ready to be off for war, adorned in respectful uniforms, twisting nerves calmed by alcohol, and their sweethearts clinging to their arms, doe eyes begging for another kiss before the night was over and they would have to bid farewell to their soldiers.

One last kiss.

Some girls were dressed in nurses uniform, baring the medal proudly. Some girls were dressed to the nines, flaring skirts, high heels and rosy cheeks. While some simply showed up, dressed up to make any man or boy stop and stare, those girl were there to get any man they wanted.

And they all wanted him.

James Barnes, or Bucky, as his friends and flirty dames called him.

Dressed in a sargents uniform and a hat to match, James Barnes was what any girl wanted, and what their mothers warned them about. From his charming, winning smile to that smug smirk, his eyes dark and light at the same time, his broad shoulders, arms muscular from working 24/7 since he was a kid, yes, Bucky Barnes was a a winner.

Smooth, flirty and classy when he wanted to be, he wooed girls and left them the morning after with a peck on the cheek (lips if he really liked them) and a promise that was never going to be fulfilled.

“I’ll call on you sometime,”

Men were jealous of him, women loved him. It was a win-win situation.

Bucky was in that bar that night, Steve left after a drink or two, saying he didn’t feel up for a party that night, though Bucky knew he was bummed he didn’t get accepted into the Forces once again. Punk. Bucky shook his head as he downed another shot, he might as well go home also, after all, he only had one more day at home before he was off.

Maybe he’d see Mary Smith on his way out, it had been a while since they’d gotten together, and the pretty dame never said no.

He shrugged on his jacket and brushed the hair hanging into his eyes back. He slid from his stool and stepped into the throng of people, crowded around two lads arm wrestling. Bucky, being half a head taller than most in the room, stood for a moment and watched, a twist of his lips formed a knowing smirk, Steve would’ve wanted to join that. And he would have had to pull the skinny kid away from getting his head beat in after if he spoke about how unfair it was.

God damn, he was gonna miss that kid.

A figure suddenly elbowed it’s way past him, shoved by a cheering, drunk soldier onto him. The form fell against him and his hands natural went to the waist, holding the person up.

“Watch it!” You scowled, smoothly pulling your body away from Buckys hands. He noticed your eyes straight away. They bright and angry, but soft like stars.

“Woah, woah,” Bucky laughed, hands held back. “Just tryin’ to help.”

“Uh huh,” Your eyes looked him up and down, one eyebrow arched. He stepped back, hands deep in his pockets now, his cheekbones prominent in the hazy room.

“Sorry, doll.” He shrugged.

”I’d honesty rather you not call me that.” You glared, smoothing down your black dress.

He took an interest in you. “Got a name?”

”Yes,”

”Wanna tell it to me?”

“Not particularly.”

“English,” he nodded, he had studied your accent while you spoke, your vibe of overall knowing you were better than everyone in the room and that smooth tone that almost made Bucky sigh. That intrigued him, he was already so ... interested in you.

“American.” You responded, not missing a beat. Bucky couldn’t decide if it was contempt in your tone or just your overall observation of him.

”Care for a drink?”

Drinking wasn’t allowed in the job, you honestly couldn’t remember the last time you’d had alcohol. “No,” you slowly responded, then remembered your manners, you were out and about after all. “Thank you?”

”Ok,” Bucky laughed. “Then what’s girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My job,”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. You missed his smirk of approval as your eyes had been searching for your target. The bar wasn’t packed, you were glad of it though, it made it easier to scopes out a target, everyone was too busy to care.

Found him, older man, mid 50s, war hero. Perfect. Your assigned target was sitting across the bar, drowning himself in whiskey.

”Where do you work?” Bucky asked you, leaning on the bar.

“I’d say it’s none of your business.” Your bright eyes raked up his form. “Where do you work?”

“M’in the army. That man, got me in early.” He pointed to your target, you glanced over and remained calm and nonchalant.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, known him forever.”

“Live near each other?”

“Across the street.” He answered, taking a sip of his beer, you watched his lips around the chilled bottle and took a small breath, this man was extremely attractive.

Perfect. Work time.

“Have any plans for tonight?” You asked, also leaning on the bars counter.

He shook his head, eyes glinting at you. “What about you?”

“Well, if I’m honest,” you lied, “I came here to find someone to have a good time with.” You took that moment to look into his grey eyes, your aura giving off a challenging vibe.

“Hm, I might know someone.”

“Indeed?”

God, that accent. Bucky wanted you, he knew you had fire, and god damned he wanted a taste. You had some sort of innocence about you, too. You had that look of soft wonder, Bucky wanted to see it forever, or destroy it and see what he could make of you.

“I’ll just go get him,” And with that the sly man turned a full circle and re-presented himself to you with a smirk. “Hello,”

You stepped forwards and kissed him, hard. Before his hands could touch you you pulled back, just an inch.

“Bet you could make a girl scream,” you whispered in his ear, hands sliding up his chest and he felt your own chest press to his delightfully.

Instead of blushing and looking at the floor like most men would have at your words, Buckys eyes darkened and his arm slid around your hip, pulling you tighter against him.

“Nah, doll. M’just lookin’ to make you scream.”

You leaned back, impressed. “Why, because I’m not like the other girls?” Your tone false breathless and girly.

“Maybe,” he grinned.

“We shouldn’t put other girls down, Sargent.” You warned in a teasing tone.

“No, we should not.”

Your fingers crept up to grip his coat collar, he tilted his head, his jawline accented as he stared down at you with darkend eyes, an ocrean admid a storm. You had forgotten you both were in a busy bar, people all around. No one paid attention though.

“Sure you could have any girl you wanted, hm?”

“Just want you, girl.”

Your bright eyes twinkled. “Interesting.”

-

The door slammed open to reveal his small, messy apartment. It was different than what you were used too. The lights dimmed and clothes came off in a rush, hands sliding, unbuttoning shirts, Bucky tossed your tight corset piece halfway across the room. Your lips didn’t leave each others, they fit perfectly, never clashing, bumping or fumbling. It was messy though, lips and tongues and hands, you surprised him with a bite on his neck and a pull of his hair.

Both of you collapsed on the bed strewn with messed up sheets, clothes. It didnt matter in the smallest bit. A whole lot of passionate thoughts and fantasies became a beautiful reality.

Bucky looked up from between your thighs, licking his bottom lip and smirking.

“Never caught your name.”

You spoke your name in a gasp as he bit the inside of your thigh, strong forearms holding your hips down and pulling your centre closer to his eager lips.

“Nice name,” he complimented before ducking down to lick up and down your heat, making your legs jerk up, hands pulling his soft hair.

“And yours?” You panted, his left hand slid up to grasp at the soft skin of your breast as he ate you out, his tongue moving ever so slowly in and out of you.

He looked up at you and flicked the hair from his eyes, smirking with wet lips. “Names Bucky.”

And with that his lips closed around your clit, head moving side to side between your thighs, you shrieked and bucked off the mattress, pushing his head down to keep him doing whatever he was doing to make you feel that’s good. “Bucky!” The feeling was too powerful, burning heat burst and you came with a sigh of his name.

He pulled away and crawled up to you, so he was level your face, he pressed a sound kiss to your lips.

“Nice to meet you.”

-

When Bucky woke up, you had turned away from him in your sleep, the thin cotton sheets clinging to your bare shoulder, your hair tangled up on the pillow. The room was filled with bright yellow morning light, it was a perfect aesthetic, and Bucky wanted to stay there with you forever.

He sighed softly and laid back down, then reached over and traced your shoulder blade with the tip of his finger. A soft sigh came from you and he smiled when you rolled over onto your stomach, your arm resting under your chin, chest pressed firmly onto the mattress, he tried not to stare.

“Morning, handsome.” Your raspy morning tone hit his ears deliciously.

God, that accent.

“Hey,” Bucky slid forwards and pulled you into his arms. Your warm bare skin sliding against his own. “Morning.”

You sleepily snuggled forwards and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. His hands slid around your waist and ran up your bare back until they buried in your wild hair, messy and frizzy from the antics the night before. The kiss was warm and soft, not like what you were used to. At all.

Bucky pulled away and bent down to press kisses down your neck to your breasts once more, you both lay on your sides, facing each other, his arms round your hips, holding you as your back arched and your leg wrapping around his hips to pull him closer where the need had fuelled up once more. Your arms were wound around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair as he most likely sucked and kissed hickeys onto the soft globes of flesh. You never knew why, but it felt so damn good.

“Can you stay?” He asked between kisses.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, knowing the real answer but forbidden to say it.

“Not even to see me off? I’m headed to the war today, darlin’.”

“What about your friend Steve?” You asked, tugging his hair.

He pulled away from your chest. “Please don’t talk about Steve while I’m doing this.” He grinned embarrassingly.

“Right. Please continue.”

You and Bucky had talked basically all night after Bucky had his way with you, you both lay side by side and spoke of hopes and dreams, memories and plans. It was like you’d known each other forever. Most of what you said was lies, though you wished you didn’t have to lie to him as much as you did.

But all you ever did was lie, wasn't it?

You felt like you needed that tiny reminder you were human, and laying in a soft bed with a man that didn’t scream orders, strike you or have you locked away gave you a small bit of — dare you say it — hope. You needed that raw and unbroken human contact, and by god you got plenty of it the night before.

You wanted to feel bad, you really did. But your job came first.

Lying came first.

But when you were around him, you didn’t feel yourself, you felt better, cleaner, more human. It was a feeling you hadn’t had in ... well, since you could remember, and that wasn’t much.

“I won’t be able to come to the train station.”

“Why not?”

“I have work.”

“I still wanna know who you are, what you do.” Bucky pleaded softly, eyes looking deep into what was left of your soul.

You paused, looking sad, thinking it over, then regained your normal neutral expression.

“I have to go,”

You slowly slid away from his form, sitting up and letting the sheet fall away from your body. He gazed at you with such a wonder and amazement you thought he could see your scars. You pulled the sheet up back over you and bent down to grab your undergarments and wrinkled dress you hated.

“Doll, it’s fine. I won’t look.” Bucky teased, seeing you cover yourself as you dressed, hiding the twisted scars on your lower back, legs and ribs. Maybe it was the bright light, or the treatment for those ugly reminders were working.

“You better not look.”

Bucky sighed and got up to also get dressed. “Y’know, you’re probably the greatest girl I’ve met.” He said, your back was turned but you guessed he was smiling.

Your heart hurt. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, when I come back, I wanna find you.”

“Steal me away from the rest of the universe?” You asked, zipping up the side of your dress.

“S’long as you’re with me.”

Your heart cracked, what was he doing to you? Spend one night with this man and he has your life turned around? You need to stay on target. Focus on your job. Your real job.

“That what you say to —“

“Just you.” Bucky was shirtless, his trousers slung low on his hips, suspenders dangling by his legs. He took slow steps towards you, hands coming to cup your cheeks, he smiled down at you. “You’re so -“

You grinned bashfully, smiling felt weird on your cheeks. “Stop,” you sighed, buttoning your coat.

“S’matter doll?”

“I really have to go.” You bent down, ducked under his arm and grabbed your bag, filled with things you didn’t want him to see.

“Just here me out, ok?” Bucky paused you, his fingers gently running down your arm. A gentle touch like that made goosebumps follow his hands. “I didn’t think this was possible,”

“What?” You muttered, blinking up at the tall man.

“We met not even yesterday, and I want to have you by my side forever.” He breathed.

“Isn’t that a story,” You replied. Though your heart sped up. You were getting distracted, just lie to him. Do it. Now. “But ... I get what you mean. I really like you, Bucky.”

“Call me James.”

You looked down, your captains voice inside your head. We grant you some freedom, observering you every second. Disobey our direct orders, and you shall be punished.

“I cant, Bucky. I have to go.”

He said your name softly. “Just wait,” and he pulled you into the softest kiss you’ve ever had.

You dropped from your tiptoes and left his lips, feeling a drifting fog settle over you, weighing you down. This isn’t supposed to happen. You're not allowed this kind of interaction with civilians.

"Goodbye,”

“I’ll remember you,” A promise he intended to keep.

The door closed with a soft click and Bucky was left with a lost, distant look and you paused in the empty hallway, hand still on the door.

You didn’t want to go.

-

“Sergeant Barnes, a word.” An old general addressed him and swiftly walked away. Bucky removed his hat and followed nervously, he wasn’t in trouble, was he? Did Steve sneak on the train? He’d kill that son of a -

“Yes, sir?”

“We have received word that your commanding officer, Captain Richard T. Blaine — family friend?” The man asked, brow furrowed.

“Yes, sir.” Bucky had known the man since he was a kid, his and Steve’s neighbor that told the best stories and always had a candy or chocolate for them. He was basically a father to Bucky, and had given the order for him to become a sergeant in the army. Bucky felt safe knowing he was going to be journeying along with Captain Blaine.

“We have news, sorry news I am afraid.”

“Why? What —“

“The Captain was found murdered in his home this morning. No wittiness, no sign of an intrusion. Like it was a damn ghost.”

Bucky felt hollow, a cold, slimy stone dropped through him. He swallowed thickly, then regained his posture and tried to steady his breath.

He’d literally just seen the Captain last night, the exact bar where he met you.

The General continued. “We will be moving you to a new base, the 107th. Front lines, kid.”

“Yes sir.” He managed. The General saluted, Bucky mirrored him and as soon as he left Bucky leaned onto the doorframe of the train, the rocky motion of the cart not helping with his twisted insides. Dead. His family friend he’d always known. Murdered. Moved to the front lines. All in a matter of minutes.

God, he wanted you right now. He’d only met you just the day before, but he wanted that presence you gave him, not necessarily warm, but you could be there and Bucky would feel so much better. He said your name under his breath before standing up straight, fixing his soldier hat and pushing the burning feeling down. He knew then, he was going to put all he had into fighting, he had to reasons: revenge, and finding you when he came back.

-

Back in the heart of New York, the sink in an old hotel room ran to cover the sounds of frantic scrubbing, the blood draining into the sink in a beautiful red puddle, knives were tucked safety into tall, lace-up boots, soft jazz music played in the background over the radio and a low voice hummed along as they packed away the murder weapons, now free of evidence.

Your boots clicked across the cold floor, headed to the table to grab the huge notebook that lay open, a fresh creamy page waiting to be written on, pausing on your tiptoes when the radio blared over the music with static. A mans voice came through the radio.

“Soldat? Are you done?” The speaker asked.

“Yes sir.” You answered in a German accent.

“Come home.”

“At your orders.” You responded, taking a black pen and scribbling down a name.

The shrewd voice of Commander Zola reached the soldiers ears. You waited, tense. “We have another mission for you.”

“Gotov k soblyudat’. Ready to comply.”

The killer stalked from the room, looking down at the name on the piece of paper. That was the your thing, write down the names of the victims, remember them all, remember them all. Cause you never knew when you would forget.

The page read, in choppy printing:

Captain Richard T. Blaine.

26th kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader is an assassinnnnnn dun dun dunnnnn and sort of used bucky to kill his mentor lol yeah so that happened 
> 
> DRAMA LMAO
> 
> but no i hope you enjoyed this, this story is basically the reader and buckys journey through battling HYDRA and finding themselves in each other
> 
> thoughts? compliments? insults to my creativity? inspirational messages i can look back on and read to boost my confidence? 
> 
> write them below ⬇️


	2. Found Once More

—

Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1944

 

“Killer, stop throwing knives at the wall.” A static filled voice came over the intercom in your cell, laced with annoyance. 

A whooping thwap sound of a small knife being hurled through the air was followed by a smash of glass and a shrill beep of an impaled camera. 

“Soldat. Drop the knives.” Commander Zola snapped, his voice now brisk over the intercom. You allowed the sharp blades to slip from your fingers, you enjoyed the sound of the metal pinging off the concrete and crossed your muscled arms, sullenly glaring at what was left of the stabbed security camera. The door of your cell blared it’s warning and the concrete door slid open, revealing two soldiers holding stun guns.

What fun. 

“Now, these men will escort you to the training room, you have had enough isolation for one month." Zola said smugly, like you cared or something.

You smirked and stepped back with a swagger, bringing your fists up to fighting stance, curled tightly into balls right near your chin, eyes dark and focused on your targets. The son of a bitch was right, it had been a long month.

"Warum nicht jetzt kämpfen? Why not fight now?" You spoke in a low tone, German was your preferred language, but when on a mission, British was an accent you'd alway enjoy. 

You could almost see Zola rolling his eyes, you imagined it with a smirk. "Killer, allow the guards to lead you." 

You scoffed and dropped your hands to beside your waist. The one guard moved forwards quickly, ducking under your swift punch that should have broken his face, and hit you full on the shoulder blade with the stunner. Electric vibes raced through you, enough volts to knock out a 200 pound man, but not a super soldier. You grunted and dropped to a knee, gritting your teeth. "Enough!" Zola commanded. "You've had your fun. Go." 

You ignored Zola and shocked the guard by grabbing the stunner from him and tossing it directly at the other man holding another huge stunner. It hit him with precise aim, right in the middle of his face. He yelled and swore, holding his bleeding nose while the other guard hauled you into standing position, his tight grip on your arms made red marks appear. You bent down and twisted under his arms and shoved him back, the other advanced and grabbed you, trapping you with his arms, he was much stronger than the other. You smelt his blood and that only fuelled you to fight back. 

You heard Zola ordering the guards over the intercom and then the guard finally forced you down and held the stunner at the back of your neck until you blacked out. 

What fun indeed.

\- 

"Ah, one more week of isolation. How did that feel?" The guard asked, your head snapped up, eyes with purple circles underneath glared daggers at him. The guard, whom you’ve come to be familiar with, both gave each other black eyes and internal bleeding on the norm and it was normal for him to come into your cell when bored and pick a fight.

His name was Aldrik, and you wanted to kill him.

"It was perfect, I cannot wait to kill you later."

"Hm, we'll see." He snarled and grabbed your arm, he snapped on a pair of heavy magnetic handcuffs. The only thing strong enough to hold you.

You went along without a word, deciding to play along, after all, you had the most free rein out of all the soldiers in HYDRA, you being their top, most feared weapon in the history of, well, all of HYDRA in its existence. Put under ice only one, as an experiment, tested only a month ago for a serum created for the american, it made you stronger, not as strong as America's own red and blue hero, but strong enough to have everyone afraid of you. They still didn't trust you, though, they stilled wiped your memory after each mission, removing faces of the people you saw, things you said, but not the act of killing a person, nor them screaming, or you fighting people that got in your way, no, they made you keep those, to remind you of who you work for.

They loved to keep the horrors fresh in the mind.

And, as you moved with swagger down the dark, concrete halls, you found you actually wanted to train with Aldrik today, you loved beating the shit out of him.

As you strode down the halls, the blaring alarms went off, droning and making your head momentarily spin. A Doctor rushed past you and Aldrik, shouting and calling for the top meds.

"Step aside, soldat." Another doctor snapped, pushing a bed with a bloody body on it.

You swore at him, earning a jerk from Aldrik. You happened to glance down at the ruined face belonging to the bloody body in the bed — and stopped the cart from moving with one hand, freezing the doctor in his tracks. 

"Halt," You ordered.

"Soldat -" Aldrik tried to stop you but you shoved him back with your shoulder as your wrists were still tightly cuffed, you didn’t bother to be gentle. 

You recognized that face.

"Shit -" you whispered, and looked down upon him once more. Seeing his bruised and bloody face, his eyes were closed but he was alive, as far as you could tell from his soft but barely audible breathing. "Where did you find this man?" 

Behind you, someone cleared their throat, you turned, hand still on the bed that held the broken man. Zola stared at you, small eyes squinted. "That is none of your concern."

”It is my concern! Where did you find him?” You said loudly. Who was he? Why can you remember him?

“Soldat!” Zola snapped. “Stand back.”

Two guards rushed to you and kicked the backs of your knees hard. You dropped with a swear and felt the cold nuzzle of a gun pressed to your neck. The doctors resumed wheeling the table away, you watched, muttering threats under your breath. 

“Killer, you seem to forget your place.” Zola loomed over you. “You forget to obey.” He lowered his tone to a breathy whisper. He gripped your chin with his fingers, sparking up rage. This was meant to humiliate you, cause shame — all you felt was anger.

You jerked your chin from his grip, a heavy scowl adoring your face, casting a shadow over the room. You tried pulling against the clasps on your wrists but stopped when you felt the gun lift away. 

“Take her away,” Zola sighed, he gave you one last look of contempt and followed the doctors down the dark hallway, you watched him and the medics turn around the corner. And, in your brainwashed mind, you did feel shame. You had disappointed your commanding officer. 

Now Zola, he was curious to find why you recognized that man and why you even cared. You were never one to care for anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he or any of the hundreds of soldiers, generals, doctors, psychologist — anyone, saying that you could ... feel things.

For all he knew, you had a heart in the shape of a gun.

-

The two guards, one of them being Aldrik, grabbed your arms and dragged you up. They turned you and lead you down the dark hall to the training room. A vast space that was always cold and had a damp feeling to it, especially in the early morning.

It was filled with metal and concrete workout equipment, sparing rings and just enough wide and tall space to fight and train. You were raised here, in this room. 

It was a bittersweet home. 

Unlike the Red Room. 

The guards pushed you into one of the sparing rings and stood silently, side by side. You cracked your neck and strained against the shackles, they began to vibrate when you put to much pressure on them. It stung against your muscles but in a moment your broke free from them with a grunt. They clanged on the floor beside your feet and you looked up at the guards innocently, a hint of a smirk playing with your lips.

In one moment they both advanced onto you, trying to land hits and blows. You ducked under the first ones arm and grabbed his wrist, pulling it up and using that as leverage to jump up and flip him over your shoulder. He landed with a thud and a swear.

“Verdammte schlampe. Fucking bitch.” 

At his words your face set to a grimace and you fought, hard. The combinations of punches, hits and kicks pushed the men back to the walls. Your mind was on fire, rapidly moving, seeing the men’s plans for their attack, planning your defence. In the moment of it all, you forgot about the man on the bed, the frozen man. 

The typical training session lasted a few hours; a break, a blood clean up, a medic to tend to your cuts, scrapes and bruises then a few more hours of combat mixed with intense workouts.

You were five hours in, not yet exhausted. You smirked and Aldrik attacked you from behind, his arm winding around your throat. You grunted and bashed your head back, hoping to hit his nose and break it. He ducked his head down and kicked the back of your legs. The other guard was up and coming forwards, you leaned bad and kicked his knee, he dropped and you used that to push off his back and flip the man holding your throat over onto his buddy. They both groaned and you took that time to step back and ready your hands to fight.

They both adavced, one pulled out a knife. You heard the blade whizz through the air as you ducked and punched Aldrik in the ribs, returning to your full height, blocking and returning hits as fast as you could. He managed to trip you, and from your position you could see he was flipping the knife, moving to slice down and attempt to cut you. 

With a cry you hit the knife from the air and jumped, your leg wrapped around his neck and he dropped, you landing on top of him. The other man picked up the knife, you watched him with hungry eyes as Aldrik under you hit your leg rapidly, signalling to stop. You pushed off him and smirked. 

“All done? Already?” 

They surveyed you, cold eyes looking your form up and down. You were medium height, muscular build, your hair was shorter than you’d like, wavy when it was from constant braids. Under your eyes were bags from lack of sleep, around your eyes were bruises that hadn’t faded just yet. Your body was covered in scars, bruises, marks from the art of killing. But your mind was filled with memories of killing innocent victims of HYDRA. The memories were bruises of their own, you guessed. 

“You have improved.” One of them stated, breathing heavily. He spit a mix of blood and saliva into the ground. 

“I know.” You said. It never got easier, you just got better. 

“Try something new?” The guard took a step closer and picked up a pair of handcuffs. They wanted you to fight them with the cuffs on. Seems legit. 

“Beeile dich. Hurry up.” You smirked.

One moved to cuff you, but before he could touch you, or even reach out to you, you had him flipped over, once more, onto his back groaning. The other, taller, stronger one cracked his knuckles menacingly and started upon you, throwing fast kicks and punches. He knew you were fast, very fast and strong when it came down to the hit, but not strong enough to stun him multiple times. 

Oh, was he wrong. While the other guard/trainer lay catching his breath and attempting to stem the flow of crimson blood from his nose, you and Aldrik didn't back down from each other. Your lip was bleeding and your knuckles were bruised and bloody. It felt good, the adrenaline, this, combat with one you knew you could beat, was the most fun you could have. You'd grown up with training, it was your lifestyle, even though you didn't want it at first, you found you wanted to always learn more, become better than yourself. Soon, you were the best. And being the best had its perks. 

"Ok, ok ... I -" Aldrik couldn't bare to say he gave up, especially to you. "Pause. For a moment, yes?" 

They were so weak.

You dropped your fists. “Five minutes."

Your chest rose and fell with each heavy breath of air. You went to the water fountain which was near the door. After getting a drink you paused, wiped your mouth and looked out the window into the hallway.

A few more medics rushed past, talking frantically in German. You could hear them through the door, they spoke of ice, a wretched fall ... how he survived, they did not know .... a train ... a soldier. They turned the corner and you could hear them no longer. 

The man in the ice, the bloody face you saw on the bed. 

You recalled his features ... prominent jaw and cheekbones, his eyes were shut so you could only guess what colour they were. His hair was cropped short on the sides and seemed to be longer on top, a typical army style. Was he a German soldier? HYDRA?

Who was he? And where have you see him before? 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yass ok so how did you like it????? we're starting to get a lil tiny plot??????????????!  
> sorry if this chapter didn’t have as much Bucky as u hoped, the title kinda makes it seem like they reunite and r happy. haha sike  
> tell me what u thought below ⬇️


	3. The Meeting

__  
Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1945

 

“How many fucking times do I have to say it. She’s not doing this!” A heavy fist was slammed down on the vast marble table, the air hung with angry emotions.

"I just think she will be the best at it." The General sitting opposite offered smoothly, refusing to get angry as his peers did. He was relaxed, confident in his arguing skills. Looking over your recent data from the field, it contained explicit details on you, your whole life, fights, missions, everything. "She has perfect scores, top marks on completed missions."

You were the best. 

"She is unstable." Zola said, tapping the file with his pointed finger. He waved a doctor over. The young man timidly passed Zola a sheet. "The latest swipe almost drove her off a cliff. She nearly killed two men." The doctor beside Zola shivered, he had been in the attack, you threw a table at him. But he'd take a table any day over what you did to his colleagues.

People learned to stay clear when you came back from a mission, you sometimes went over the top after being exposed to so many other things. Most of the time, you kept silent, not speaking unless spoken to, looking sullen and dark. Sometimes, on rare occurrences, you didn’t speak for weeks.

"I'll admit that new training was tough, but she pulled though, she always has." Lennon argued intently. “This will give her a chance to build on what we have given her." 

If you were there, sitting at that table, listening to old men control your life, you would have gone mental. It was sick, the constant control and need for power, and they didnt even do the dirty work. It was you, training, being broken and sewn back together. It was you, hunting innocent people in the dark. It was you, not them. Not them with their huge mansions, rich wives and perfectly spoiled children. You were just reaching your twenties, and you had been doing more than all of them combined.

And for them to watch you spiral into darkness, ‘allowing’ spare monents of free time — it wasn’t actually free time. They watched you. All the time.

"Since when do we allow our assets to run free in this damn base?" Another general spoke up, his arms crossed defensively. He didn’t trust you. “She needs to be under ice at all times, unless in the field."

"And what about Barnes? He is strong, he was the only one to survive the serum. He can handle her." Lennon said in a tone that sounded as he finished the conversation. He didn’t know why he was arguing with those pathetic men, all they were was afraid of you and your power.

He, on the other hand, saw and appreciated your power. Deep down, he respected you. Maybe even admired you.

“She can’t see him, not until he is stable and ready to begin the process.” Zola finally agreed. He knew his orders, but he didn’t want to obey them. He was afraid of you, afraid of what could happen. But he didn't speak on his fears, when they could destroy his whole operation he helped build. And with Red Skull gone, thanks to fucking Captain America, he had taken over the operation. But would he, The Red Skull, agree with what General Lennon was proposing? He had been awfully close to you and your missions growing up through the ranks of HYDRAs international criminal force, also known as the ICF. 

“What harm will this do? She will be assigned to training the soldier in the near future.” General Lennon growled, he had always had a soft spot for you, let you basically do what you wanted, like stay a day longer during missions to fool around, stroll around the base on unassigned assigned days off. 

Zola rested his hand on his chin. “Assuming she doesn’t turn him against us.” 

“Why would she do that? You know who her father is.” Lennon responded, bringing out the big guns.

”I am aware. She is a different one. She doesn’t fear us.” Zola murmured, getting up. “Very well, allow the soldat some time around the new...” he paused, searching for a word, “...subject. Restrict her and record all the interactions.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Zola turned to leave.

“One more thing, sir." The doctor finally remembered the main reason he was in the meeting room. “The-the uh, subject needs a new arm.” 

-

Cold. Blackness, screaming. He was falling, the wind whipping in his ears. Falling, falling, falling. 

It felt like a ton a bricks, landing on the rock hard ice of the frozen river. His arm stopped most of the fall, bending up with a sickening crack, bones protruding places they shouldn’t. He screamed, yelled until his throat was raw. He held his arm, fingers feeling the ripped flesh stabbed by pieces of bone and ice. “Steve ...” He sobbed. He kicked his foot a few times, the pain blinding him. It hurt so badly.

He just has to hold on. Hold on to that fucking train. But he fell.

Was this what it was really like? To die? 

Tears blurred his vision. His body felt constricted and in a bind, frozen. “Steve!” He screamed. “Oh God,” his head was throbbing, vision sweeping around him, punctured by swarms of blackness. “Help,” his arm felt as though it was breaking away, piece by piece crumbling to nothing. It wasn’t the white hot pain he’d remembered from breaking his ankle as a kid, this was worse, much much worse. 

“Steve!” He cried, feeling an overwhelming realization that he was dying, slowly. It was gonna hurt real bad. “No,” his voice was cloaked with tears, throat raw and sore. He couldn’t move. Stuck in the ice. 

His bloody clothes were sticking to the ice, freezing him in his own grave.

As he lay there, warmed by the blood flowing freely from his arm, chest and head, darkness swooped around him and covered him in a thick blanket of cold death. 

It was so cold.

-

Bucky woke with a start but didn’t move, he was held down with thick straps. His vision blurred in and out. All of a sudden, like his nerves came back to life, Bucky felt something spinning, cutting through the bones in his arm, he heard the clinking of things hitting a metal bowl. His arm. Something was sawing it off. He tried to scream and found his mouth was covered, a black tie had him gagged, unable to make a sound. Faces swarmed around him, oddly bubbling from side to side, so many faces.

So many lights.

Blood sprayed up from his arm, sprinkling the side of his face, it was warm against his cold, blue skin. His vision faded, leaving red

...

then darkness.

-

"I am warning you, Soldat. Sprechen Sie nicht, es sei denn, es wird gesprochen. Do not speak unless spoken too. That is an order." Zola said as you and him walked down the hallways packed with cells. 

"Jawohl. Yes sir." You murmured under the mask. 

"And no matter what, töte ihn nicht. Do not kill him. Do not touch him, unless I command.”

“Yes, sir.”

-

His body felt heavy, sluggish and slow. Bucky blinked his eyes open again and turned his head to look around the dark room he was in. 

He coughed and tried to sit up from the cold, hard floor, his shoulder was killing him. The lights clicked on and he blinked a few times. His head was spinning. He tried to pull away from the very uncomfortable position he was in, but something jerked him back down. A metal clang sounded through the cell and he peered through the darkness, trying to see what holding him down. He was chained by the wrist to the wall.

Chained like a fucking dog. 

“What the fuck...” he murmured, scooting back against the wall. His right arm moved to feel his shoulder, was the damn thing broken? Then to his horror, he felt his shoulder, his fingers smoothing down his shoulder blade, he breathed slowly, it sped up when the tips of Bucky’s felt a thick bandage, followed by air.

His arm was gone. His left arm was gone.

"Fuck," he gasped, the pain hit in as soon as he realized it was gone. The shock had now worn off. 

Memories came rushing back, the fall, a soldier finding him, frozen. The saw, all the blood and bones. “Holy shit —“ 

His arm. He had only one arm.

The door of his cell opened slowly, interrupting his panicking. Heavy boots were heard entering the room. Bucky sat up with a grimace, it was hard without one whole arm. He set aside his panic and horror to focus on the short figure entering his cell. 

The person was cloaked in battle gear, all black, gun holsters, hidden knive compartments, bullet proof vest that looked like a straight jacket and a thin black mask. The gear was heavy, he could tell, but the soldier wearing it didn’t seem to care. What was most interesting was the mask, it wrapped around then soldiers throat and mouth like a vice, completely hiding the face, it only showed their eyes, Bucky looked up into them, they were hard, like ice. There was a silent, steady power radiating off the person.

“Ah, good evening.” Zola spoke quietly, stepping into the room after Bucky and you had stared at each other for another ten seconds.

You, the soldier, turned and slammed the door closed, making Bucky jump, the heavy chain rattled when he moved swiftly to hide his face. 

Bucky now knew he was scared. He was taken, this was HYDRA. He remembered Dr Zola from before Steve rescued him. God, he wished he were dead. “Soldat,” Zola instructed. You tilted your head to Zola, ignoring the screaming in your mind, who was he? Where did you know him from? You should have never seen him before, he was an enemy of HYDRA. Your mind hurt, looking for memories was always hard. You’ve been through you didn’t know how many wipes, your mind stripped bare, left to collect what they burned into you. 

You stepped forwards and pulled him up, the heavy chain slithering behind him. That was the frozen man, the one you saw weeks ago, on the bed with then doctors. He was alive. He groaned and resisted, but you jerked him to a sitting position, a little less rough than you normally would have done.

He looked so lost.

When he was stable you stepped back, heavy boots echoing in the cell. Zola folded his hands behind his back, looking down at the man. “What is your name?” 

He didn’t answer. Zola nodded at you and you pulled a knife out of your thigh holster, an automatic response to an order. Prepare to kill. “What is your name?” Zola inquired again. 

“Where am I?” Bucky growled, watching you with darkened eyes. You stepped forwards, twirling the knife over you knuckles. 

“I asked you a question, and if you want to keep any more body parts, I suggest you answer.” Zola snapped. 

“Why the fuck am I here!?” 

Before Bucky could blink a gun was cocked and pointed at his head. He watched you with his grey eyes, you stepped forwards and pressed the nuzzle of the weapon into his hair, not afraid to press hard.

“I suggest you answer properly.” You warned, your tone manipulated from the mask, your voice deep and lacking any remorse.

“My name is James Barnes.” He spat. 

In response you slowly pulled the gun away. Zola smiled. “There. Now, you asked where you are?” 

He didn’t answer, he just held what was left of his shoulder with his right hand and looked down at the ground. The concert floor was stained with blood from past victims of HYDRA.

Zola continued. “You are at HYDRA. One of my men rescued you from a frozen river. We treated your arm and provided you with a serum to help, much like the one you previously endured.” 

He was here before? You stayed silent and watched James Barnes look up at Zola, red anger in his eyes. “So you’re just gonna torture me again?” 

“Train you. When you are ready.” Zola spoke softly. “You will become the new face of HYDRA, the ICF and SHEILD — but the world won’t know your name. Alongside our own Killer here, we will make you our top asset.” He nodded to you. Bucky glanced at you, hatred in his eyes. SHEILD? There were dirty agents? Possibly with Steve? He had to get word back. He had to get out of there, now.

”What if I refuse?” He growled, getting a smug look about him. “Will you just kill me?” 

“Oh, you won’t have a choice, Sargent Barnes.” Zola replied, like it was the easiest thing. Barnes’s jaw clenched, he decided then, at that moment he would always fight. Never surrender to their power, never give them what they wanted. 

“Now let me introduce you,” Zola smiled. He rested his hand on your arm and you tensed. “This is our Killer, she has been with us since she was a child. We raised her to be the face of HYDRA. Our greatest weapon.” 

Bucky raised his eyebrows when Zola said ‘she’. He looked over you, almost sizing you up. You glared down at him, you didn’t like the way he was staring you down.

“She will be overseeing your immediate training.” 

“Getting your guard dog to train another, huh?” Bucky snarled. He was angry, confused and in pain, and that made him a danger, to mostly himself but he didn’t realize that. "They got you brainwashed, too?" He asked.

A split second passed and you had the gun pointed at his face. You choose to speak of your own account. “Beleidige mich wieder und ich werde deinen anderen Arm abreißen. Insult me again and I will tear off your other arm.” 

Bucky leaned forwards, he had understood you perfectly. “Do it, I dare you.”

Oh, this was fun.

You stepped forwards so the gun was inches from his ever so familiar face. Your fingerless gloved hand steady on the weapon, finger playing with the trigger. "Ich werde nicht zögern. I will not hesitate." 

“That is enough.” Zola spoke up harshly. You stared down at him, wishing you could hit something, not him, though, you felt like you wouldn't be able to. With a quick movement you clicked the safety back on the gun and returned to your spot beside Zola, Bucky's cold eyes following you then entire time.

“Any questions?” Zola inquired. 

Bucky pulled at the chain. “When can I get out?”

“Sargent Barnes, you are with HYDRA now.” Zola said in a tone you recognized, the soft tone that said ‘remember this: we own you’. 

“No,” Bucky growled shakily. The chain rattled and clanged as he pulled on it once more. “You can’t keep me here,” 

“You are a prisonor of war once again, Sargent. It will be better on all of us to comply.” Zola sneered. He then looked over at you. “Am I correct, Soldat?” 

He wasnt. He was wrong. “Yes sir.” You murmured. 

Zola gave Bucky a grin. “They all break eventually.” He whispered as though you weren’t there. Bucky saw your form twitch, like the words impacted you some way. 

“You can try.” Bucky warned, aware he was speaking threats from his feeble position on the floor, chained to the wall. “You can fucking try.” 

“Oh, we will, Sargent.” Zola said sweetly. “We will be leaving you now.” 

And with that you turned and opened then heavy metal door, leading the way for Commander Zola. Leaving the man you couldn’t remember in the dark, it felt odd, leaving him. He was all alone, trapped in a place that would only hurt him. You couldn't relate, you grew up here. This was your home, as much as you hated it. 

Bucky swore loudly, he pulled on the chain and found the heavy metal was just tossed in a pile, if he unwound it it would probably be much longer and he could at least walk around. 

He spent the next half hour slowly unwinding the heavy chains with his right arm. When it was finally done, he shakily (with the help of the wall) got up used the wall to aid him in getting to the door. He tried it, maybe it was left unlocked, nope.

Damn it!

He punched the wall, a clanging sounded echoed through his small cell, making his head throb. He found his hand didn't hurt, not one bit. It must have been the super soldier serum they gave him. With a twist of his wrist he cracked the bones, feeling them pop. Bucky hit the wall again, it didn't hurt, it felt good. He hit that damn wall until he was bleeding and finally, finally, he felt pain, but not ever much.

He turned, loosing his balance due to his missing limb and he slowly slid down the door. Blood dripped from his good hand, but he just stared at it. Bucky was once again alone in the dark. "What the hell am I going to do,” He choked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

After an hour of fighting with the thoughts in his head, he had a plan. 

He was going to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> short chapter!! sorry! i suck!   
> but bruh i honestly felt bad for bucky in this chapter the fuck. there is still sooooOOOO much sadness coming lol just u wait.   
> thoughts on the chapter? compliments? insults? type them out below ⬇️ srsly no insults I'm sensitive lol


	4. A Start

——

 

Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1945

 

“You do not understand. I work better with my hands!” You said, straining against the heavy magnetic cuffs. No matter how how they were, it was a bitch to break through them. The engineer sighed, looking up at you from his work. He didn’t make eye contact, he was told you didn’t do well with basic human contact.

 

“I have orders,” he murmured, “and superior officers observing.”

 

“Fuck them.”

 

“Commander,” The engineer said loudly, his eyes closed in annoyance. You were getting on his nerves, as much as you intimidated him.

 

Zola stepped in from the shadows, a small smile on his face.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Must Frau Killer be here? I can do this myself I don’t see why -“

 

“I designed the fucking project, arshloch. They,” you jerked your head at Zola, at your moment the cuffs vibrated when you pulled on them, “refuse to allow me to work freehand.”

 

Ah, your work. Your mind. See, in response to one of the serums they forced into your body, your mind flared, it seemed to expand beyond what a normal human could do. You can see things, how they were built. How to make them better. You can figure out battle plans, formations. The numbers lay out in your brain like a god damned recipe book. You could most likely, given your potential, be one of the greatest researcher or war engineer on the planet.

 

But HYDRA keeps you hidden away, chaining you up with their other pathetic excuse for a top engineer. They hook you up to heavy metal machines and the wires somehow transmit your brainwaves back into the machine, theoretically printing a formula for the creators to follow. It was sick, how they used you. But you were the only one to survive the monthly injections. 

 

You, in some way, enjoyed the work. You were strapped to a chair, but it gave you time to focus on things other than your memory or lack there of. 

 

But when absolute pricks like Zola wouldn’t allow you to aid the men working on the most recent creation, the arm.

 

The weapon. 

 

A lieutenant cleared his throat from the back of the room where he watched you. “Is there a problem?”

 

“She wants to work freehand, it might help speed the process.” The engineer offered. You stayed quiet, wary that if you spoke, they would take that away.

 

“Does it look like she fucking runs the place, eh?” The old man asked with a wicked sneer. 

 

The cuffs vibrated again around your wrists as you clenched your fists and anger. The engineer sighed again.

 

“No, sir.” 

 

“That’s fucking right. She has no place to be out of fucking bonds. She does what she’s told and nothing else.” 

 

 

-

 

 

Bucky didn’t know how much longer he could stay in that cell. Twice a day a man pushed food through the small opening beside his door. And once a short female nurse came to check on his shoulder, that was the only human interaction he had for a few weeks. He thought of everything, his family, Steve, his home, even you crossed his mind a few times.

 

You’d taken over his late night thoughts many times during his months as a soldier. He could recall your face, your eyes, not your voice, though. And during the war, whilst all the other lads pulled out small photographs of beautiful girls they had waiting for them at home, Bucky had simply grinned shyly. He knew you were better than all the girls in the pictures. And he told them, he bragged about you. They said they didn’t believe he could capture the heart of a mysterious woman from London.

 

Oh, how sadly wrong he was.

 

He wondered where you were, weather you thought he was dead, or if you even thought of him. 

 

After all, you were the one that closed the door.

 

He knew Steve must have thought he died on that train, and it hurt him so bad to think of his best friend thinking he was dead. It made him so angry that he couldn't talk to Steve, tell him he was ok, that they could go home.

 

“I’m with you till the end of the line,”

 

His fist clenched when he thought of that. The frozen river. The falling. The darkness. In some way the fall symbolizes the end of the line — with Steve anyways. 

 

Weeks. It had been weeks. He thought he might go crazy. 

 

Then, finally, on a day where he didn’t think he would see anyone his door slammed open. He got shakily up from the bed and stood in the middle of the room. You entered, less gear then last time, but still in an intimidating amount of bulletproof blackness. He sized you up and you stared at him, eyes squinting through the masks goggles, figuring out where his face came from. 

 

Right, your job. "I'm to take you for a test or some shit." You said, switching to English for a change.

 

"What kind of test?"

 

"It's for your arm." You stated, unlocking his chains, he rubbed his wrist and hissed slightly when you clamped another pair of lighter cuffs on him. You ignored his pain, striding forwards and moving to grip his arm and pull him out the door.

 

Just like any other prisoner. 

 

“Walk,” You weren't in a messing around mood, you'd just gotten out of another cleaning and your brain felt like mush. Cleaning, a lovely term for HYDRA hooking you up to machines and picking around your brain. They tried all new things, training techniques, controlling methods (was the chip in the back of your neck not enough?) and many more that thinking about make your headache hurt more. 

 

Bucky didn't move. "I have orders." You said and pulled out a knife threateningly. 

 

"Your orders are to not kill me, doll." Bucky couldn't help but sass. Even when you had all the power he daunted you.

 

Doll. You blinked twice under the mask, the nickname echoing around your head. Who had called you that before? When you couldn't remember, you got angry. You stashed the knife away and kicked the backs of his knees, he almost dropped with a swear but you grabbed his shoulder roughly, hauling him to a standing position. "Walk." You growled in his ear. 

 

He muttered something but began to move. You lead him out of the cell and let the door slam behind you. You gripped his arm and began navigating the dark, damp halls of the base. He walked quickly, you guessed he used to have some sort of swagger to his walk, he seemed the type. 

 

Bucky felt you looking at him and turned his head to smirk weakly at you. "So, how long have you been killing people?" 

 

-

 

You arrived in the doctors chambers. God, you hated that place. So many memories, bad ones. Horrific ones. Bucky looked around the room with a sigh. A doctor came into view, holding a clipboard. "Ah, yes. Sargent, come here." When he refused to move, you shoved Bucky forwards roughly, he turned and glared at you then sunk into a chair, slouching and glaring at the both of you. 

 

The doctor seemed timid to touch Bucky. "Soldat, would you ..." he gestured to Buckys wrappings on his shoulder. "My other doctor is on rest after what happened." He avoided your eye contact as he spoke. 

 

You had stabbed the other doctor while he was cleaning some wounds of yours.

 

You scoffed lightly under the mask and moved forwards to begin unwinding the white gauze. Your hands, ones that killed so many, were gentle and careful while treating it. Bucky tried not to stare, all he could see of you were your hands and eyes, they were hard, focused on the task. He noticed your hands didn't shake, your breathing was even - due to the serum he found, when he was around other people, he could easily hear their breathing (and sometimes heartbeats, which freaked him out). He also could sense when someone was coming down the hallway, entering his cell or basically any form of movement, he could vaguely sense it.

 

"Shit," Bucky winced as you peeled the rest of the wrappings off. Cold air hit the skin, it felt off being exposed to the open air. The doctor came forwards and held up a mirror so Bucky could look at the damage. The end of his shoulder looked like it had been through hell, it was bruised, scarred and half healed. "Jesus..." he had to look away. 

 

"We shall be taking measurements, collecting samples, begin the building process. You will start with some simple exercises, then we will begin the attachment." The doctor scribbled some notes down and began packing away things. You stepped forwards and looked at Buckys shoulder, curious to see how the Doctors and scientists were going to apply the new arm.

 

"For what?" Bucky glanced from you to the Doctor. 

 

"Ah, well in order for you to be in prime condition, we, the Soldat and I," he nodded to you, "have been constructing a new arm."

 

"What?"

 

The doctor began measuring his shoulder and writing things down. “Don’t ask questions.” 

 

“No, get the fuck off me! What the hell?” Bucky tried to jerk his body away from the gloved hands of the doctor, but you gripped his injured shoulder and kept him steady. “I thought — I thought since I was hurt you wouldn’t —“

 

“We have ways of ensuring you’ll be in top condition, Sargent. Prosthetic arms included.” 

 

Buckys eyes widened. “No, no fucking way,” his tone was breathless, the oceans in his eyes swirled with fear. 

 

"Don't move," You hissed, moving forwards to push him back by his shoulder. His skin was warm to the touch.

 

"No, no, listen — I don’t want this." Bucky pleaded, looking up as two more doctors and one nurse entered the room, the nurse, a blonde woman with cold eyes, was carrying a metal case with a red star imprinted on the cover. Bucky and you watched her open the case to reveal the prototype of the arm you helped construct. "What the hell is that..." Bucky peered over, he was distracted, the doctor saw, and moved forwards to inject yet another serum into his skin. 

 

"Ah, fuck," Bucky winced, the fluid, whatever it was, felt cold in his veins. 

 

"This is just a freezing method whilst we, erm, select some flesh samples." The doctor said, tossing the used needle in the trash. You stepped back slowly, bright eyes taking in what was happening. You remembered being in that chair, strapped down and spiked with needles and injections. You suddenly didn't want him to go through with it. You wanted him to get out of there, to be safe. 

 

Just as your hand wound its way to your thigh holster which held a small handgun, another doctor grabbed your wrist. He had been watching you ever since he entered the room, he could see you planning something. "I think it it time for your own work, Soldat." He said slowly, squeezing your arm. You slowly looked down at his hand then back up to his face, he held a neutral expression but blinked rather fast as you made eye contact with him, his breathing picked up and he released your arm. 

 

"I already got my work done. Fass mich nicht wieder an. Now do not touch me again." You warned, crossing your arms.

 

Bucky leaned forwards in his seat and watched you argue with the nervous Doctor. This distracted him from the other nurse gently wiping an area of scarred skin on his mangled shoulder with cleaning alcohol then a numbing solution that froze the section of skin.

 

”Shall I call Zola in? He will not be pleased with you not getting an examination.” 

 

Without a word you turned and hopped up on the cold steel table, glowering at everyone with your hard eyes. With jerk-ish movements you unzipped your jacket, revealing a simple black wrap covering your breasts tightly, a bare strip of skin was seen between that and your high waisted black army pants. Bucky watched you solemnly, he wondered what sort of examinations you needed - but his questions were cut short when you scooted back on the table and turned around, showing your back. It was absolutely covered in grotesque bruises and marks, one line was stitched closed, but that didnt help in making it look pretty.

 

Your skin was blotched with blood and bruises, making you appear battered and broken. But if not for the jacket covering you, no one would have guessed you’d sustained such injuries.

 

Bucky stared at your back, your hands clenching the metal table until your knuckles turned white. “What happened?”

 

Before you could answer, the doctor completing your examination spoke. “She failed a mission.” 

 

“I did not. Fail.” You snapped, your tone harsh. The doctor looked down at you with what Bucky would call pity, but his eyes told a different story, they looked alive with malice, like the man enjoyed seeing you like that. 

 

Suddenly the blonde nurse pulled the plain white curtain over you, just as he watched a doctor begin remove your mask. He could no longer see your scars, now nor your face; which still remained a mystery to him. Why would they keep your face hidden?

 

He wanted to actually see what you looked like under it. All he only had seen was your eyes, but they seemed absent of light more and more.

 

“What did they do to her?” He questioned quietly, sitting obediently still while they strapped down his legs, two at his ankles and one over his thighs. The room around Bucky felt as though it were filled with a white haze, like in a dream. Maybe it wasn’t real? Maybe it wasn’t even a dream. It could be a nightmare.

 

“We do not give failure recognition here,” the nurse spoke softly, her quiet tone twisted with an accent. That sort of accent reminded him of you. 

 

She tighten the strap over his chest, fully binding him to the medical chair. His heart hammered in his chest, what were they doing to him? What was happening to you, the soldier? 

 

-

 

You opened your mouth to stretch your jaw when the mask was removed “Why must I keep this on?” You questioned quietly, leaning to watch the man fix the small gears and wires hidden in the face covering.

 

“We are using the mask to monitor you, as you’ve managed to one up our other methods.” He said calmly, re attaching the mask over your mouth and lower jaw. You caught a glance at your self in the mirror near the wall on the side by the bed. You looked haunted, glaring eyes that knew only pain, black bags under them made you look all the more non-human. 

 

After he finished reapplying the mask he moved to treat your back. The skin on your back tightened and heated up as the man behind you wiped some sort of medical paste over your bruises. The heat felt good, it soothed over the dull, constant pain of the wounds. 

 

You were so stupid.

 

Thinking back, you knew you couldn’t exactly recall how you got so hurt. It was never like you to get that bruised, that broken.

 

See, what HYDRA didn’t tell you is that you didn’t fail your last mission. You had it completed in a week with zero wittinesses and the exact dead body they wanted. But if HYDRA loved one thing, it was mind games. They gave you a mission every once and a while, an easy one, one the trainees are allowed to complete. They send you off, wait for a report, fly you back in and inform you that you failed. That results in punishment and a reminder to always do better. 

 

-

 

“Sargent, dont move.” A nurse spoke, holding a small, sharp knife. 

 

Bucky dragged his eyes from the curtain that hid you. “What’re you doing?” He rasped. 

 

The nurse refused fo answer. She carefully used the blade to select a small section of skin from his shoulder. Bucky prepared for pain but found he didn’t feel a thing. She then drew some blood, this time from his other arm. He watched in silence as they swarmed around him, measuring his arm and shoulder width, making adjustments to their plans spread out over the table beside him. 

 

The curtain across the room was drawn back and you appeared, all black uniform back on, covering the wounds once more. Bucky was momentarily stunned, you walked as though you hadn’t felt pain in years.

 

-

 

“I believe we have all the samples we need.” The main doctor said, removing his gloves and tossing them in the bin. “That will be all.”

 

Bucky was exhausted, mentally and physically. The bright lights were getting to him, his head stung with a headache and his shoulder stump ached when the freezing medication wore off. You stood to attention and waited for the nurse to unbuckle the restraints on Sargent Barnes. 

 

As you lead Bucky out, a large man seemed to melt from the wall, blocking your way. He stood well over 6 feet, wide and muscular with sharp facial features, tattoos covering his tanned skin and dark, cruel eyes under thick brows. That was Hugo Venn, second best soldier in HYDRA, and that was only because half the base was terrified of him.

 

You knew better, you didn't fear nor respect him, he was a joke of a soldier and a cruel human.

 

He smiled a winning grin, and blocked your and Bucky's way with his muscled arm. "Oh, good evening, Soldat." His throaty voice was smooth with the Russian accent he carried. 

 

"Bewegung. Move." You snapped, your tone mean under the mask. Bucky looked between the pair of you, not understanding the little bit of disagreement between the two of you assassins. 

 

"I've missed you," Hugo murmured softly running his tongue over his bottom lip, looking you up and down. You were never one to get uncomfortable, never one to get embarrassed or feel any basic emotions, but you involuntary shivered every time that vile man spoke to you. Bucky took note of you, your shifting feet, glaring eyes. 

 

"I don't give a shit,"

 

Hugo didn't even blink at your short response. “So who's this?" He looked to Bucky, sizing him up. Compared to that giant of a man, Bucky felt small and he did not like that. You watched the two men stare each other down, and you figured neither of them should bother, it was useless. 

 

"None of your business." 

 

"Is this is brand new recruit General Lennon spoke of? He said this thing," Hugo looked Bucky up and down, "was your new pet." 

 

At his words you left Buckys side and, with both hands, shoved the man into the wall with full force. He hit the hard cement with a groan, you used that split second to kick the top of his kneecap, forcing him to drop onto one knee, you bent closer to him, so you were now at the same level. "You say one more word to me, fuckface, and I'll make sure you dont go on another mission, got it?" You gripped his hair and pulled his head back. Bucky watched in the doorway, not shocked at your little outburst, god you were interesting. 

 

"Fine, fine! Jesus, woman!" You let him go, turned on your heel and grabbed Bucky's arm once more, pulling him away with determined steps. Hugo was still fumbling, how he was considered a real soldier, you never knew. He pushed himself off the wall, rubbed his bruised knee and muttered something under his breath. 

 

"Fucking crazy bitch."

 

The last thing Hugo saw that day was your fist coming straight at his jaw. 

 

-

 

"Can you stay for a minute?" Bucky asked when you two got back to his cell. You froze, unsure of why he requested that. He was technically your prisoner, you were supposed to train him to become yet another killer. You were wary of his intentions, but stayed on his side of the cell when the door closed. 

 

"What do you want?" You asked suspiciously. 

 

"I just -" Bucky ran his hand through his messy hair, it was getting longer by the day. "I'm really fucking freaked out." 

 

You stayed silent, unsure of what he was getting at. 

 

"What did they do to you, when you became whatever you are?" He asked, turning and sitting on his bed. You stayed standing near the door, one hand on your buckle near multiple hidden weapons you always had on you. "Don't hurt me for asking this, please?" He looked at you, a way that made you want to never look at him again, but never stop staring him. 

 

Fuck this, you decided. They never said anything about you talking to him. They wanted you to be close. Right?

 

“I grew up here." You said, not looking at him. Your gaze drifted to the concrete wall just behind him. “They did many things to me." You closed our eyes for a moment and blocked out the flashes of painful memories. 

 

Bucky's brow furrowed. "Oh, fuck, I'm sorry. Did they take you? When you were a kid?" 

 

Why was he asking all these questions? Why did you want to answer him? "No, I - I was born here." 

 

"So you never really -"

 

"Why are you asking me this?"

 

Bucky paused. He just wanted to know, he was curious. You were probably the most scariest and interesting thing he had ever seen. And if he had no choice in the matter of whatever his life was ever going to come to, he maybe wanted someone he could trust, even if you did kill people under his enemies orders. "You're just the only person who hasn't really hurt me." 

 

"Yet." You said, and instead of looking startled, he grinned. You tried to stop the grin from coming over your face under the black mask. "But the first time I saw you, I threatened you with a gun." 

 

"And a knife." 

 

Your hand left your belt and you crossed your arms, looking down so he wouldn't be able to read your emotions on what was visible of your face. It was silent for a minute or two, and you couldn't remember what comfortable silence was like. 

 

"What should I call you?" He asked in a small voice. "I never caught your name." 

 

Ugh, that feeling again. You knew you've heard someone say that somewhere. You felt a wave of mixed emotions crash over you. When was the last time someone asked you that? When someone bothered? Or cared? You looked at him, he was waiting for your answer. Then your voice got smaller. "I can't remember my name right now. My real name.”

 

"Why?" Bucky looked genuinely sad. He moved to stand up, slightly unbalanced without his arm. You backed up, hand reaching for the panel. "Wait. What did they do to you?" 

 

You didn’t answer him.

 

Before he could even move, you turned and Bucky heard the door of his cell slam shut and your heavy footsteps leave him. 

 

-

 

You didn't come see him again for a long time. Bucky had begun a training program, mainly full of intense workouts. 

 

He felt like they were either breaking him, or building him up for something. He was threatened that if he did not follow orders, he would be shot on sight and they had eyes on who he loved and would kill them of he didn't cooperate. He knew it was probably true. And he didn't want to risk anything. 

 

So Bucky trained. He began to be balanced without his left arm. He grew stronger and more angry as time went past. He wasn't sure what had set you off that day, but he wanted to speak with you. He planned what he was going to say, apologize for setting you off. He wanted you on his side, he wasn't sure you were even on aniseed to begin with. 

 

Once, on the way back to his cell, which became smaller and more depressing then ever, he saw you. You looked different, your hair was down and you wore no tactical gear but a plain black outfit and boots. He noticed you still had the black mask on, covering everything but your dark eyes. Then, he saw that Hugo guy, the one that was bothering you the last time he saw you. The man had his hand on your waist and talked in a low voice. You shoved his hand off roughly, but the same hand returned then to the side of your shoulder, rubbing softly. He seemed to speak in a harsh tone, like he was ordering you. 

 

Bucky watched you reeling back to punch him in the throat, but Hugo grabbed your wrist, twisted and shoved you against them wall, his hand on your head, pushing you into the wall. Muttering threats into your ear. 

 

Something inside Bucky fuelled up, rage? Protection Mode? He didn't know. All he knew is that you hated that guy, wanted him gone, even. He noticed the guard was busy messing with some notes so he began to walk towards you.

 

As he got closer he heard you threatening Hugo. Bucky grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, ducked swiftly under his reaction punch and delivered a swifter uppercut to his jaw. In a second you had seen it was Bucky, you turned around and vanished around the corner. Hugo was bent over, holding his jaw. He really didn't know how to take a punch, did he?

 

"Don't you fucking talk to her again." Bucky growled in his ear. He stood straight and stepped back, Bucky brought his knee up to Hugo’s head and knocked him out, then shoved him down on the ground. 

 

"Sargent! Don't move!" The doctor yelled, shakily holding a stun gun. Bucky grew vicious, he shouldered the doctor out of the way, almost stumbling, but caught himself. He pushed off the wall and turned just in time to deck another guard that was running up to defend the doctor. 

 

It took the other guard to come over and restrain Bucky. They hauled him back to his cell and chained him up, and they weren’t shy about giving him some payback bruises.

 

\- 

 

Back in the upstairs lab, Zola sat and rewatched the clip of Bucky fighting 2 men at once. He noticed Bucky seemed to have snapped after he saw you being mistreated. A plan formed in his evil mind, he called the general over.

 

“I see it is time to get some real training done." Zola said. He wasn't sure where that part of him came from, the violent man. It had to have been hidden deep. “This is the man we are looking for.” Zola smiled sickly. He was happy. 

 

That was the first glimpse of The Winter Soldier.

 

”Well done, soldiers.” Zola turned in his chair, facing you and Hugo, who were both supporting bruises you knew were coming. You stood, arms crossed, eyes drawn on the tape, you watched yourself get beaten into the wall, watched Bucky angrily stride to your “rescue” and easily “overpower” Hugo. Who had previously been instructed to drop after a few hits. A twisted feeling built in your stomach, so this is how it looked.

 

Manipulation.

 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang lol i feel like this is moving fast? my boi bucky ready to fight over here like lmao bruh chill 
> 
> BUT WOT DOES DR ZOLA HAVE PLANNED? idk
> 
>  
> 
> pls, if u liked the update, drop a heart or a comment (feedback is fuel!!)


	5. Metal Bones

After Buckys outburst and almost beating Hugos head in, HYDRA had taken to chaining him straight to the wall, so it held his arm up. He was shirtless, the wound on his shoulder bleeding on and off. Fighting in the hallway tore open some flesh wounds. To punish him, they'd just left him to suffer. His movements were even more limited, and he grew more angry by the second. 

 

His door slid open to reveal you. He almost didn't regonize you, you wore simple training clothing and a smaller mask. Your hair was pulled back into a messy pony tail and your eyes looked tired. He tried to move from his slouched position, but groaned and sunk back to where he was most comfortable. "Why are you here? Thought I scared you off." 

 

"No one knows I'm here." You answered, a lie concealed in the utterance of soft words. You paused near the entrance of the door, resisting the plan of your mission. 

 

Know him. 

 

You were not used to getting to know people, not used to anything their than fighting, killing. HYDRA, after many meetings and ideas, they agreed to allow you the mission of what they called The Start of Winter. You were told what to do, simply be a face he can trust.

 

You will not get attached. They said. 

 

Of course. You had nodded. Of course. 

 

Now in the cell you moved to sit down near him. You had a leather bag over your shoulder and gloves on. You told him know one knew you were here.

 

"Ok, and? They want you to kill me or some shit?" He asked, he leaned against his strung up arm, so only half his face was visible in the dim light. You watched his bare chest rise and fall, a shiny coat of sweat covered it. You knew what was happening to him. 

 

They were beginning to break him. 

 

And you were to help. 

 

"No. Did you not hear me? I snuck in." A lie. 

 

He didn't answer. "When is the last time you ate?" He shrugged his shoulder, yesterday? The day before? Three days ago? He knew they gave him food once and a while, shoved under the door, it took him a while to reach it with the heavy chains. 

 

"You're the first person I've seen in forever." He answered throatily. "They're getting me back for beating the fuck outta that shithead.”

 

"Thats why I am here. Look, I know what is happening, I've seen it a hundred times. HYDRA likes to find people weaknesses, punish them for it, and then use it against them. You're only at the first stage, it'll only get worse." 

 

"What do you mean?" He looked up at you. You had begun pulling a few things from your bag.

 

"They'll make you desperate. Here." You tried to pass him a piece of bread, remembered he had only one arm and the other was chained up, so you held it for him and he took a bite. "I know how this works." 

 

"Why are you helping me?" He asked quietly, he was so grateful for the food, but had a million questions. You moved to sit cross legged in front of him. Your body only about a foot in front of him.

 

"You helped me. This is my fault." You said, giving him another piece. You didn't know exactly why you wanted to help him out, or why he wanted to help you out in that hallway by almost killing that guy. He passed the test. And there was something about him you couldn't shake, like you needed to help him out.

 

"You didn't ask me to do what I did." 

 

No, you were ordered to act accordingly until Bucky would do what he did. 

 

"But you did it anyways, and now you're here, chained and left to suffer."

 

Bucky nodded slowly. He then lifted his head to look at you properly, you looked a lot less intimidating on the ground, more small. He wondered what you looked like. How you were before the whole HYDRA thing. He figured he wouldn't ask you about your past, but he was curious. "What'll they do to me?" He asked in a small voice. 

 

You began packing away empty bags into your leather satchel. "HYDRA likes to see whats inside of people, then when they find what they like, the pick it out, mold it to their own fashion and watch it follow orders like a fucking puppet." Your tone was hollow. What made friends? What makes you know a person?

 

Honesty. 

 

HYDRA wanted you to be honest. And your plan is to be as fucking honest as you could be. 

 

Bucky sensed you knew what it was to feel real pain. Not broken bones, bleeding lips or a lover leaving you, but pain that numbs you, swallows you whole. The kind of pain you would only imagine if you were drowning.

 

You stood, turned to go, then thought better of it. You got onto your knees and moved closer to Bucky looking into his eyes. "I owe you for helping me. I hate owning people." 

 

Why were you lying? You owed him nothing. Perhaps a few punches, but other than that, nothing. 

 

"Ok?" Bucky said, your gaze made him feel like he was on fire. He felt aware of everything going on around him, the dance of stars in your eyes were burning into him.

 

“Ok. Good.” You were about to get up but his lost, scared eyes stopped you. You felt something drop through the cracks in your heart, like an emotion you couldn’t shake. You briefly reached out, almost to gently stroke his face then thought better and recoiled. Maybe that would be later in the plan. 

 

Your movement pulled Bucky out of his trance you kept him in. You were like a creature, timid and shy, but curious. His eyes followed you as you got up and moved to the door. He longed to follow you, to escape with you. 

 

“Hey,” he said soflty, his voice cracked and he cleared his dry throat. You paused halfway through the door, half on your tiptoes so you could be unheard. “Thank you,” 

 

And with one last glance you turned and let the door slide back and left Bucky in the dark once more. 

 

-

 

You came to see him every other day. The two of you sat across from each other. Bucky slouching against the wall and you sitting cross legged. You spoke in low tones, Bucky even made you smile once or twice under the mask. 

 

“Ever tried to escape?” Bucky whispered one time, he was tired, leaned on the wall, his head resting on the concrete, jawline accented in the dim light. His shoulders were slumped, red and raw from always rubbing and touching the concrete wall he was chained to for hours on end. 

 

Your eyes pulled from his frame, and you thought for a moment. “No.” Not a lie.

 

“Really?” 

 

“Yes? I have never lived anywhere else, so why would I leave?” 

 

“But they hurt you, tortured you. I, I don’t get it.” 

 

“I think you forget, sargent. I am the bad guy here. They do this so I can help them.” 

 

“Fuck, this fucking place is messed up. You know they are the bad guys. Not you.” 

 

You didn’t answer. 

 

“Makes me wonder what I am. What I’m gonna be.” Bucky sighed. It was easy to forget he should hate you. He just wanted someone to talk to, and you seemed to be a good listener. 

 

“Soon you won’t remember.” 

 

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.” 

 

-

 

“Easy, soldier.” General Lennon set a heavy hand on your shoulder. Your chest heaved, dampened with sweat. 

 

You were strapped to the memory machine, held into the seat by thick leather straps around your ribs, legs and neck. Your throat was raw from screaming, the burning feeling of getting swiped still lingered in your nerves. 

 

The general stepped away from your quivering and gasping form, he reached beside him and grabbed a small book, black as night with a simple red skull imprinted on the front. 

 

You coughed and spit out the teeth guard they gave you. Readying yourself for the words to come, you clenched your fists and pulled against the straps, the muscles in your arms and shoulders bulged and tensed as the General held your book open in front of you.

 

Lennon cleared his throat, and began the beginning words. “Night, Forgotten, Red, Bones . . . “ 

 

-

 

You hadnt been in to see him in 5 full days. Bucky was beginning to wonder if you would ever come back. He almost longed after your presence, you were quiet, but when you spoke you gave him a sort of a soothing feeling that he hadnt had in a long time. Sure, you were blunt, rude and normally angry at something when you spoke, but he understood that you could act however you pleased, you were a robot, ordered around, so when you were alone, taking to him, he didn’t exactly expect nice words or just silence. He expected you to be yourself. 

 

It took him a while to figure out that he missed you. 

 

He was bored, restless. In his head he mapped out what he knew about you, it wasn’t much, but maybe he’d consider you a friend? He didn’t know.

 

Did you consider him a friend?

 

He knew you you were stuck in the middle of two very different things, polar opposites: you wanted to help him, but then you needed to break him. He understood, in a sick way, what you were feeling. He knew you were the bad guy in this story, he the prisonor. How could he change that? How could he make his own story and come out alive? 

 

-

 

Early one morning, on the 6th day of your strange absence, a tall man dressed in white entered his cell. Bucky looked up quickly, a half grin on his face that quickly vanished when he saw the man and not you. 

 

“What is this?” He rasped. The man didn’t answer and looked over him, it was silent except for both of their steady breathing. The man began to unchain Bucky's hand, releasing it of the bruising metal and dropping it with a clang near Bucky's feet. Bucky's wrist hurt, it was rubbed raw and scabbed from the cuts he suffered. He gently rubbed his wrist on his pants, hissing as it flared with pain. 

 

"Steh auf, Soldat. Get up, soldier." The man said sternly. Bucky complied, struggling to stand as quickly as he could, in fear they would hurt him if he didn’t follow orders. 

 

Your words echoed in his head: do what they say, follow orders, listen to commands, do that and they think they’ve won. Do that and we can still have our own thoughts, our own choices. 

 

He figured you were right. But then we’re you told to say that? Was every conversation you two had a ruse? Taped and recorded to track his progress? 

 

When he stood straight, the man grabbed his arm and began to lead him out of the cell. Bucky stumbled along, silent and biting his tongue to avoid certain instults and jabs he normally would speak if it were a normal day.

 

 

“No - no, please.” Bucky grunted, he had no power over the doctor holding him down. A nurse beside him prepared the syringe. A strangled cry came from Bucky as they strapped him down. “No, I don’t want to do this! I don’t wanna be a part of this!” He begged. 

 

“Sargent, hold still.” The doctor warned, he was out of breath from holding Bucky down. The nurse gently inserted the needle and Bucky felt the coolness spreading through his veins once again, a the room blinked in and out, his eyes felt as through they were pulled down by weights. His voice dropped to a throaty whisper, begging to let him be. He just wanted to be ok. 

 

He heard your voice in his head. “You won’t even remember, you will be empty. It’s the worse pain you’ll feel, you’ll want to kill, to complete the missions; it’s the only thing you’ll know.”

 

”No!”

 

-

 

 

He blinked, the white world around him was fuzzy, blinking in and out. He felt cold, heavy, heavy blocks seemed to cover him. Something wasn't right. He twitched the tips of his finger, circled his wrists, lifted his arms, both of them. 

 

Bucky saw his flesh hand, palm and fingers spread wide, then, in the shape of a left hand, bright silver and aligned with smooth metal plates, was a hand. He held both arms out, his left felt heavy, different. 

 

It was metal. He flexed, the gears grinded, the plates shifting and tightening it. His heart pounded in his ears, his head hurt. He had a metal arm. 

 

A doctor peered in his face, hands scribbleing some notes on a clipboard. Bucky startled and grabbed the mans throat, squeezing tightly. He found he could feel things. He felt the mans pulse slow, felt his ragid breathing and mix of German swears as Bucky choked him out. 

 

Then suddenly, Doctor Zola pushed through the throng of people and slammed a needle info Buckys chest. He felt a surge of power, he felt the doctors neck snap under the metal digits, then went limp and released the mans throat, letting him fall to the floor and the metal arm dangled over the side of the bed as Bucky fell unconscious once more. 

 

“And here, my fellow scientists, is my greatest creation: The Winter Soldier.” Zola smiled as he stood over the sleeping body of the soldier, who, by tomorrow, wouldn’t even remember his own name.


	6. Outside Missions

__

 

— Germany, hidden HYDRA base • late spring, 1945

 

A bright light clanged on, your head snapped up, eyes wide and bloodshot. Your blurry, sleepy vision cleared, the world around to zoomed back into focus to reveal the livid face of a man before you: General Lennon. Seeing you were awake, he drew his hand back, you clenched your fists, waiting for impact, he struck you across the face, hard. That was for the way you spoke to Barnes the last time you saw him, before the mission and he went for prosthetic surgery. You had become distracted. 

 

How were you to know what you were punished for, though? He figured he should chain you up, make you rewatch the tape of you speaking, telling Barnes all of HYDRA’s ways.

 

You stifled a grunt in the stinging pain and turned your head to look back at him. 

 

The smack brought back some thoughts to your brain. You blinked a few times, lips twitching as you slowly began to remember, your name, Killer, your work, asset, current situation, just endured a mental wipe that removed two days of memory’s, where you were, who you were and what you did to kill a person. You recalled, a piece of the puzzle floated through your mind, adding to the mess of your latest memeories. 

 

You saw yourself holding a small, sharp knife. You were crouched around a dark alleyway corner, waiting for an important man, you remembered hearing his heartbeat speed up, the spurt of warm blood and his cry of pain, muffled by your hand tightly covering his mouth. His breath was warm on your fingers. He said a name before he died, as he choked on his own blood. You had pondered over who the name belonged to. A child? A lover? You would never find out.

 

General Lennon’s voice brought you back to reality with a growl. “You remember your name?” 

 

“Killer,” you mumbled in German, your head hung, the strain it electroshock put on your neck was unbearable.

 

“What are you?” 

 

“I am an asset,” 

 

“Who do you work for?” 

 

“...HYDRA.” 

 

Lennon smiled coldly, pushing off your chair and letting a guard begin to untie you and help you back to your cell. He watched your war torn body barley hold itself up, your hands shook as they were placed under the cuffs. Fresh crimson blood dropped steadily on the floor from your nostrils, adding to the stains of the past pain inflicted upon you, the Mörderin [killer].

 

“See, Doctor?” Lennon folded his hands over your file, he looked back at the concerned Dr Zola who was watching from the upstairs viewing room. “She is still with us.” 

 

-

 

You laid on the hard bed, straight on your back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The long hours after a brain clean were always the worst. It took you a while to figure it all out; what was real and what was fiction. Over the years your mind had become accustomed to reorganizing the few memories it had, as patched and re-sewn as they were. You sighed and reached under the heavy mattress to retrieve a small, crumbled piece of paper. 

 

In shaky hand-writing you read your name and the following paragraph: 

 

I’ve gotten a wipe, things I know are: I am 23 years old, born 1918,

 

You were positive you were older, not physically but actually, the few years you’ve spent in cyro could add up to you didnt know how much. You could be in your thirties, there was no way to tell. 

 

I am a killer, but I do not work for HYDRA 

 

It took you a moment of staring at the page to fully recall your promise to yourself, never submit. 

 

Then, after a few more small details that stirred the thoughts and memories in your head, you flipped the page over and read in a very rushed scrawl, a more recent message you wrote to yourself as you knew you’d forget if after a new wipe: 

 

protect barnes 

 

-

 

It was so late at night you were sure he would be sleeping. You quickly put in the password to his door and slipped inside, the freezing air stung the sensitive skin that was exposed. 

 

What you saw you almost didn’t recognize. Bucky lay, still shirtless and bleeding, on the floor. He was no longer chained up, but what you stared at was something much different then you imagined. His arm. 

 

Metal and looking like if could crush bones into dust, that thing radiated power and darkness. It gave him a whole new vibe, one that made goosebumps erupt over your skin. You were almost nervous to startle him awake.

 

You knelt down slowly and examined his face. He had circurlar bruising around his eyes, cheekbones and jaw. Marks of panic, pain and confusion he would have to endure for the rest of his miserable future at HYDRA. Those bruises were from the memory wipe machine. 

 

Bucky wouldn’t remember who you were. It was his first official clean. All of the unimportant memories would be gone.

 

You gently reached out and pushed his shoulder, hoping to wake up him. He startled as soon as you touched him, scrambling to a sitting position against the wall, eyes wide and deranged. 

 

You sunk lower, as to not look as though you intended to hurt him. “Barnes,” you spoke quickly and quietly, raising one hand slowly, fingers spread. Your other hand went back to feel for a gun concealed in under your black

shirt with a simple leather holster. He watched you, head tilted to one side, hair falling over his blue ice-filled eyes. You tried another name. “Bucky?”

 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He croaked, his tone raw and dry. 

 

“That’s you,” you slowly inched towards him, wary that he could attack you at any second, “try to remember.” 

 

“I ... I can’t remember anything.” He said in a panicking tone. His metal arm grinded and the plates shifted as he flexed. The metal whirred. You stared at it, it was brilliant. The attachment had worked. Your eyes flicked to his face, trying to silently apologize for being the one responsible for his current state.

 

Your heart picked up its pace. You’d just noticed that where his flesh shoulder met his metal one, his skin was ripped and torn, the blood flowing freely. Then you followed the drips and smal trail of red to his right hand, where his fingers were dried with blood, his finger nails chipped and broken, also bleeding badly.

 

“What did you do?” You whispered, horror struck. Bucky looked down at his blood then back to you. He still didn’t seem to make the connection of who you were just yet. You could not trust HYDRA. They could make him hate you, if they so desired. “What happened here?”

 

He had been trying to claw off the metal arm. To rip it free from his body with his own hand.

 

“I don’t want it there, it hurts so fucking bad.” He dropped his head in his flesh hand and inhaled shakily, heaving some deep breaths. The muscles in his shoulder stretched under his hot skin.

 

“Jesus,” you touched the part of his shoulder where the metal was blended into his skin. He jerked at the contact, and your fingers came away red. You looked at each other. The absolute sadness in his tone made you feel something. Anger worked its way up and tucked the emotions away. It was that moment when you found you’d rather be killing someone than almost having forbidden feelings over a soldier with a metal arm.

 

“Listen, Barnes,” you said slowly, leaning forwards and reaching out to touch him for the second time.

 

“Stop. Calling. Me. That.” In an instant he grabbed your throat with his metal hand, not being afraid to squeeze. You choked out a gasp, your hand wrapped around his metal wrist, immediately attempting to pry the weapon of a limb away from your neck.

 

“Barnes! Fuck,” you finally had pulled his hand away, you coughed hard, your throat felt swollen. You stumbled back, pushing your body away from his with your heels. “Damn, to think you used to call me Doll,” you managed to joke as you rubbed your neck, a joke was rare thing to come from you.

 

At the word doll he completely changed, the darkness and confusion left his eyes and what clouded over is what you guessed do be fear. He dropped his arm back to his side and recoiled away from your form. You coughed again, the mask vibrated over your mouth, warning you to not raise your tone any higher.

 

He suddenly saw you in his mind, dressed in all black gear, he saw you helping him, sneaking into his cell. He saw himself fighting another man for you, he saw you through a window, working, training in the gun range, each bullet hitting the mark with insane accuracy. He saw you watching him train, like a shadow in the room. He saw your gentle hands unwrapping his shoulder wound, your eyes, hard and focused. He saw your scars etched into your bare skin. He saw stars, your eyes.

 

“M’sorry,” his voice soft, he saw in the pale moonlight, a red mark already appeared on a part of your throat the mask didn’t cover.

 

“I’m fine.” You felt your neck, tried to rub away the pain. You pulled your mask covering down all the way, so the thick fabric wrapped around your neck. “Now, how many did they put you through?" 

 

It took him a moment to piece together what you meant. "I don't know, twice? I know there were three of them, all in my face." He brought his flesh hand up and rubbed his eyes, as if that would trigger any recent memories. "It hurt so bad," he said numbly. 

 

"It becomes an easy pain." You tried to soothe him whilst trying to think of ways to trigger some memories for him. But in all honesty, you didn't kmow much about him. 

 

"I didn't mean the wipes, I meant them attaching metal to my fucking body." 

 

"I don't know what to tell you," You knew why they did it, Bucky was set to be the most perfect, powerful as asset HYDRA had ever seen, and that metal arm was set to be his legacy. 

 

"Why did they pick me?" Bucky looked up at you, pain ridden in his grey eyes.

 

”I don’t know.”

 

Bucky needed you to have an answer. Before this, before the surgery and traumatic awakening with no recollection of anything, just blackness, he was lost in an empty room. Before all that, Bucky wouldn’t have given much thought to what you would have had to say, he didn’t trust you fully. Or not even at all. But now, seeing just your eyes behind the mask, he could catch a glimpse of emotion. Worry.

 

To worry for someone means that you would have to care a little bit, right? 

 

-

 

“Mission review,” General Lennon sat heavily in front of you, in his hands he held a file, you caught the names ‘Stark’, ‘Carter’ and ‘Rogers: deceased’. Once he caught you stealing a glance he snapped the folder shut, his brown eyes hard as he waited for you to look up at him. He beginning to dislike your new manner, you were never that cold with him, he had liked you, given you special treatment, even. Had you just been playing him, like another one of your victims? Or had you unlocked some empathy with your recent mission on S. Barnes? Lennon didn’t know.

 

What he knew though, was that he didn’t favour you anymore. It was time to properly see you followed orders. It would be strict, harsh and breaking down, but in the end everyone will thank him for finally tying the infamous Mörderin [killer] down.

 

His heavy fist slammed on the table top. “Eyes here, soldat.”

 

“I cannot see you probably with this fucking-“ you stopped yourself from swearing, “with the mask on, sir.” 

 

Your eyes burned into the cement wall behind Lennon’s idiotic face. He had a face that was left in a permanent scowl, his eyebrows here bushy, adding to the anger filled look. He was impressively tall and powerful looking, but was not at his prime; he had lost some of his muscle and bulk from age and the new job as General of Agents at HYDRA.

 

“Take it off,” he sighed, “I haven’t seen your face for a while.”

 

Disgusted, your eyes flicked to his. “I’ll keep it on.”

 

“See,” his finger pointed at you, he seemed to be talking to himself, he rubbed his jaw before pointing at you again. “This is why I am going to change things around here. Your father may have had rules. But he is no longer. I will not have a female soldier think she has control over what she says and does.”

 

“And what is my new mission? Shall I forget the faces again when I return? Or will it be a write off?” You were angry at his words, disgust filled your voice. Your whole being despised the man in front of you. It was official, you were going to kill that man if it was the last thing you did.

 

“There will be no more outside missions, you are to be moved to another secure location to train the Winter Soldier.” The board of HYDRA had a good four hour meeting the night before, discussing you and the Soldier, how they could make you both work for HYDRA in the long run. They decided you were too comfortable here, it was time to go back to Russia. You will be forced to a strict schedule, Barnes should follow along with you, all while you learn who he is, what he would do in battle situations, etcetera. You will undergo weekly interviews and recall his progress for it to be recorded and filed. Your time at the centre be rewarded, the funds will be deposited right into the account. You will not see the outside world for the better part of a year.” Lennon waited for you to go off the wall, flip the table, maybe stay silent and try to stab him.

 

But you, the ultimate mystery, shrugged and said: “When do we go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the next chapter will be longer! thanks for reading!


	7. relocation pt1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: small mention of self harm is used in this chapter

—Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1945

 

It felt like Bucky was afloat in a deep black pool, unable to move, trapped in his own mind. The recent memories of the past few weeks were swirling in the water, just beyond his reach, the grim faces of doctors and guards and the calm, worried distant people from his memory drifted further away every second, soon they vanished, slipping between the waves of the water as he tried to grasp them between his fingerstips. Desperately Bucky Barnes tried to hold onto what little he had left of his mind and memory. Soon they would dissolve and be gone forever.

 

Drowned.

 

It wasn’t that they took away what he was, he was James Barnes, the soldier, the hunter and killer that, during his time before capture, took down HYDRA soldiers without blinking. No, they wanted all that. Needed men like that. They would take away who he was, his soul. They didn’t desire the inside stuff, all that was of value was just the hard shell of a man that, to them, would have nothing to lose.

 

They had already began remodelling.

 

He stared down at the arm, breathing heavily. The self inflicted cuts and scrapes along the line where metal met flesh still stung, a constant reminder of the torture, but the blood had dried. His skin was itchy and sore. He would rather that than a metal appendage. The blood quickly became tacky, and some of the metal plates were stuck momentarily when he shifted them in movement.

 

Damn, Bucky thought, there had been a lot of blood.

 

He had stopped when he saw the concern in your eyes, as you looked at the scar worthy damage he had done. He could tell you were seeing the map of twisted scars running from his shoulder to the planes where the metal began. He shouldn’t have done it.

 

It just hurt so fucking bad.

 

Footsteps approached his cell, echoing down the damp hallways, it was always so cold and damn damp down in the cell chamber of the base. His ears perked up, he stared at the door. Was it you? He heard through the concrete walls someone hastily enter the code on his door, a strip of light beamed on the floor as the door slid open, revealing a Doctor, Bucky recalled his short, pouting face from the surgery and the memory wipe.

 

Dr Lars Erikson was short and rather round, he wore all white to maybe match his closely cropped greying hair. His mouth always was set in a firm, thin line when he was concentrating. The only time he smiled was when a patient was successfully broken under his observations. In that case he smiled most of the time, keeping a smug and content look about him.

 

“Good morning, Soldier. How is the arm?” Erikson clicked his pen, the ink filled tip hovering over the paper, threatening to bleed black ink on the creamy page, also ready to take down notes on the latest project.

 

Bucky stared at the Doctor for a moment, disappointed that the person wasn’t you washed over him. “S’not the colour I wanted,” his voice was throaty and painful to use. He needed water. The doctor took Buckys tired voice as a sign of giving up, he took in the sort of dry humor that hid the soldiers real emotions. 

 

“You make jokes,” Erikson noted, his eyes downcast at his papers, “feel any better?”

 

“Define better,” Bucky managed a small grin, “does wanting to die count?”

 

“I am afraid not.” The man turned and snapped at someone standing outside the door, the sound echoed around the cell. Was it her this time? Bucky found himself waiting for you to appear, silently as always, a shadow dropping from shadows.

 

It wasn’t her. 

 

It was only a guard that entered the room and helped Bucky to his feet. He nearly stumbled, off balance again with his new... addition. The metal plates shifted as he moved the fingers. They responded perfectly, as if it were a real flesh and blood limb. Together, they followed the doctor a different way down the halls, they went past a gym and into a long corridor. Bucky soon realized that was where they kept the soldiers, assassins and kill squads.

 

“Here we cross past the hall of ‘heroes’,” the doctor chuckled to himself, “this is where you will be staying.”

 

Bucky had nothing to loose. He figured he couldn’t get in trouble for wanting to know more. “How many people are in this place?”

 

“Eh, around forty prime soldiers, but only two top assassins at the moment, whom you’ve both met.” 

 

He inclined his head at the tall metal doors on the left side of the corridor. Was that where you were? Did you get a huge room with all accommodations brought to you? And the other assassin, who were they? Unfortunately he couldn’t remember Hugo Ven, the man who he punched in defence for you. HYDRA had erased that from his mind, better he couldn’t recall the manipulation or figure it out.

 

“I thought there would be more,”

 

“This isn’t the only base we have, Sargent.”

 

He felt bare, waking alongside the Doctor through the vast space that held so many dangerous people, weapons. How many ghosts wandered the halls? How many silent screams echoed from the victims of the many HYDRA killers? Hitwomen and men, soldiers, squads; they all had a story, and it all ended in pain, whether it was their own or others.

 

Blood was spilled either way.

 

They paused beside a gleaming door while Erikson entered the password, the door slid open with a whoosh, and they entered a white room, Bucky saw huge shower stalls and tall lockers, to the right of him was a glass door, that lead to another training room, gym and pool. How big was this place exactly, Bucky wondered. He knew the base was nearly dug into a mountain somewhere in Germany, but the base must go deeper, down under the ground perhaps. He would have to escape, tell Steve, alert the US Army. He didn’t know if the war was over, he hadn’t been outside in weeks, months. He shuttered at the thought, it had almost been six months at HYDRA. 

 

Half a fucking year was lost. 

 

He’s been missing, lost to the rest of the world, lost to Steve, his best friend, the squad, his general, whatever family was left of his that cared. Then, that girl, that one night stand girl that was so much more. He wondered if that girl thought of him often, he wished she did. He imagined she would be waiting for him if he ever got out. When, when he gets out.

 

He then thought about you, the shadow, the masked force, a HYDRA top killer, practically the only reason he wanted to live. He needed your help. Bucky wished he could see your face, he had never asked if you could remove the mask, you didn’t seem to be allowed. Maybe you had a scar, an injury you were hiding. It definitely added to your mystery, he would never be able to recognize you without the black mask. He wanted to put a face to his only friend at the base.

 

Even if you were the enemy.

 

-

 

“Fuck,” 

 

A heavy body slammed onto the hard black mat, you stumbled back from the force it took to take Aldrik down, nearly falling back yourself. He swore harshly, his arm bent funny when he slammed down, pain shot up his left arm and fizzled out near his neck. He cursed you through gritted teeth, watching your eyes and could tell you were glad to take him down.

 

You caught your footing, the shitty fucking mats did not make it any easier to grip with bare feet.

 

It was a hand-to-hand combat training session, your last one today of the day. You wore simple, tight black pants and a HYDRA printed workout t-shirt, special fabric kept the fit tight and breathable so you didn’t sweat to death. 

 

Not that Aldrik was much of a workout, anyways.

 

“Jesus, frou Killer, you nearly broke my arm,” Aldrik laughed, climbing back to his feet, he wore no shirt, exposing a tightly muscled form covered in Russian tattoos: words, symbols, on his brown skinned back were tally marks of victory drawn in ink, in your world, victory meant a victim was involved. 

 

“I’ll hit harder next time,” you promised, under the mask your lips curved into a small smirk, you held your fists up, returning to fighting stance. Your eyes focused on his body, you were never taught to watch his hands, but to focus on the form, better to see where and when the punch or strike was coming. Your eyes picked up movements in the shoulder, a ripple of muscle in the arm, the tensing of a leg before a kick.

 

“Please, try,” Aldrik was back up and advanced swiftly, he threw out a jab, to which you stepped aside and pounced, once more delivering the new move you learned, duck low under their attack, swing your fist around to blow out their ear drum, step in, wrap your leg around the waist and drop them to the ground over your shoulder. All in a second.

 

Maybe he, too, was watching your body. 

 

“Shit!” You shouldn’t have used the same move twice on the man, before you had time to set up, his hand closed around your tight fist and yanked your body around to face the front of him. Stupid! You cursed yourself, bringing up your knee to crack one of his ribs. He blocked expertly, his face set in a smug expression, with a twist of your arm behind your back and a strong forearm wound around your throat: he had you caught, pain burned in your arm, twisted in a bad position, you gasped for a gulp of air, his arm slowly pressed harder to your wind-pipe. Anger lit aflame inside you, your hands shook, you struggled for a moment, jerking your body to try and break free of his grasp.

 

“I have to say I will miss our little sessions,” he murmured in your ear, his warm breath fanned over your shoulder and neck, “it has been very fun.”

 

“Fun?” You managed to shoot your elbow back, jabbing it into his stomach, forcing him to bend slightly from the sharpness of the blow. “It’s been rather boring, Aldrik.” 

 

Hit, hit hit. And you were free, landing into a small half summersault, ending on your knee with the other leg extended to the side for balance. You looked up, breathing heavily. Your hair had come loose from the french braid woven tightly to your scalp, the frizziness framed your face, moving as you breathed. You watched him climb to his feet once again, the muscles bulging under his brown skin, his tattoos staring at you. The victims screaming inside your head.

 

Aldrik Zu was born somewhere in the mountains of Asia, taken as only a baby and brought to be raised in a school of Assassins set in Russia, being a secret organization, he was never allowed to know his birth name, his parents or ancestry. He grew up, trained for ten years, joined the Russian military in an elite group doing off the record mass killings, masked missions; suicide trips, they called it. He survived and began his travels through Asia and Europe, obtaining large sums of money as a hitman, one who made others disappear for good.

 

He had changed over the years, at barely thirty five years of age, he felt old, worn and different. He finally landed in Germany, right at the birth of HYDRA, where he began working as a trainer, a personal guard to the Generals and top Agents.

 

That meant you.

 

You were difficult, refusing to train alongside him, brushing him off as a pass, boring work. But he rather enjoyed a challenge. He took you on as a star student, using you as examples, bringing you to the front lines to show off your work to the others, just to piss you off.

 

He decided he liked you when you glared up at him from the mats and declared to the others watching that you were going to kill him.

 

“See that fucker there? I’m going to kill him.”

 

Aldrik smiled and stepped off the side of the mat and walked with a slight swagger towards the wall of weapons, set upon silver shelves over eight feet tall, everything from stun guns to knives to even spears. He pulled two short metal rods from the magnetic wall, the weapons pinged of the metal that held them. They were handmade out of steel, crafted at about two inches thick. It was enough that one hard blow could easily shatter a normal persons bone under the skin. A super soldier? It only gave you bruises that lasted only a week at the most. The blows barley hurt.

 

He turned back and saw you upright, watching with slight fire in your eyes.

 

“Finally something interesting,”

 

-

 

Bucky stared at himself in the long bathroom mirror with solemn, tired eyes. The white panel lights above Bucky give him a distorted look at his body. He looked haunted.

 

Like a ghost.

 

The Doctor has given him a new set of clothes, black pants and a soft-feeling black t-shirt, one sleeve shorter to show the full length of the metal arm. He told Bucky to shower, take as long as he liked, and get dressed. His first official documented examination would begin when he was ready. 

 

It was rather odd, being presented with choices. For a few minutes, he had his own time. 

 

Bucky’s mind had dislocated while standing under the warm water, he felt every drop slide over his sore skin, soak his long hair and cling to his eyelashes. He stood with one arm braced against the wall, keeping him from fully collapsing. There was a bar of soap and a small cloth just outside the dimly lit shower stall. The metal hand against his skin was soft and cold at the same time. He couldn’t explain the feelings he had while looking down at the hand. How it moved: effortless, beautifully smooth. Powerful.

 

In the reflection, he barely recognized himself, the arm stood out like it was a million times larger than his body. His eyes, tugged down by heavy bags born from lack sleep, were kept of light and his face was stuck looking just perpetually deplorable.

 

He hadn’t pulled his shirt on yet, but paused and looked properly at himself. He still had some muscle, but was very lithe, the fresh bruises pounded into his pale skin still stared at him, faces of black and blue, the older had turned yellow and pink. His wrist was rubbed raw, his hands and feet hurt when he moved. His neck was under constant strain. The metal was heavy to hold onto, physically and mentally. He felt small, even for his height at just about six foot two. Bucky saw himself in his minds eye, crouched in the corner like a child, eyes wide and brimming with tears formed from terror.

 

Damn, Bucky thought to himself, his mind returning to the present, staring at himself in the mirror. This is so wrong.

 

Looking at the mirror finally brought some reality to life in front of his eyes, he was a prisoner of war. Nearly died in a frozen river, dropping from a train off the edge of a mountain. Captured and tortured, broken down, emotionally and physically manipulated, forced to work with a faceless assassin; and he wasn’t the only one.

 

Other soldiers were taken, or had, like her, grown up in this form of hell on earth, experiencing everything day in and day out like it was normal.

 

Were others caught, conflicted, like you? Did they refuse to leave, hate them, do their dirty work, still hate them but never leave? He would have to ask you, the shadow. The Faceless one.

 

Bucky gingerly pulled the shirt over his head, tugged it down his chest and stomach, temporarily hiding the bruises. Leaving the mirror, he sat down and pulled on a pair of heavy lace-up boots, light and agile for combat. They fit perfectly. His hair was nearly dry, it hung it loose curls over his forehead. He hated the long hair, felt it made him seem even more insane, more lost.

 

Fully dressed and finally feeling more kept, more human (he had been living in simple black trousers, normally no shirt, then during examinations and surgery he had a medical gown on), Bucky walked to the door, he noticed his gait was off, to others it would look as though he walked with a swagger, in reality the arm was heavy.

 

The doors opened automatically, the bright lights from the hall stung his eyes for a moment. He made his way out to an open room with barely any light and a high ceiling. Doctor Lars stood in the centre of the room, hands clasped over a file, a short, dark figure stood beside him, back straight and eyes piercing behind the black mask.

 

“I assume you know who is beside me, Sargent?” Lars smiled and inclined his head to you as Bucky walked to meet them. He noticed a row of guards along a wall, silently waiting.

 

Bucky stood in front of you, barely breathing. The air hung thick with the indescribable emotion you both felt during the time you had to spend together. A desire to connect, halted in its tracks by the unspoken mutual agreement that neither of you shall pursue a deeper connection.

 

No attachments.

 

Bucky managed a nod, he watched as a drop of scarlet blood ran down your hand, most likely from a busted knuckle, drip onto the clean floor. “Um, yeah — yes,”

 

When he spoke, your eyes finally snapped to his, bright like stars as always, it was only for a second before your eyes went back to shifting around the room. He glanced again at the blood, you followed them and lifted your hand for inspection. Doctor Lars watched you contently. “The soldat had a rough training session,” he noted the bleeding hands. “Lost the battle once more.”

 

Rough, was it? Lost? You clenched your fists, focused on the warm blood on your skin, it squeaked and slid uncomfortably against the leather finger-less gloves you wore.

 

Bullshit. You had it bad? It was Alrik on his way to the medical wing, supporting freshly cracked ribs, a broken hand along with a blow to his pride and reputation. All you’d received was a new blue and purple bruise or two and some cut up knuckles. You had easily gotten ahold of the weapons Aldrik advanced upon you with and overpowered him. It did not make sense as to why they would lie to Barnes, portray you as weak but boast that you were the prized assassin, most obedient soldier.

 

“Doesn’t look like she lost the fight,” Barnes shrugged his shoulder, a challenging mood came over him. He almost smirked seeing Doctor Lars Erickson’s face falter for a moment.

 

You beat him to it for a response. “I should warn you, ich gewinne immer [I always win].”

 

“Now, now, soldat,” Erikson waved over a tall female guard, she stood silently, ready to take down anyone who stepped out of line. You speaking without being spoken too figuratively jumped over that line. The mask had tightened over your jaw, making it more difficult to talk once more.

 

Pretending nothing had happened, the Doctor began to lead you and Barnes further into the room. “First on our to-do list: examination. Second: relocation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! this chapter was too long so i split it up into 2 parts (mostly because i didn’t want to rename this chapter, i’m lazy lol)
> 
> your thoughts on the update are greatly appreciated! feedback is fuel ⬇️


	8. Relocation pt2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!

warning: small mention + description of torture. 

 

— Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1945

 

Barnes’ expression hardened. “Relocation?” He glanced over, as if to exchange unimpressed expressions with you, but you remained unmovable, your eyes never fixed on anything, you hadn’t looked at Barnes again since the time in the hallway only minutes before. You didn’t want to see his face, how torn and saddened he must have looked.

 

Bucky wanted to stop you in your tracks, demand you to tell him if you knew about this, if you had planned this. When he looked at you, he only saw someone who snuck to his cell through the dark and turned it around, the way he saw the sick world of HYDRA. He refused to see the killer, but as you stayed silent he couldn’t help but imagine that you were willingly going along.

 

He really didn’t know you can’t move, can’t step out of line, the guards were trained, ordered to stun you until you passed out if you even moved one muscle out of line.

 

Your hands were tied. Literally, cold metal cuffs were tightly clamped onto your wrists as soon as you entered the room. 

 

“Where am I going?”

 

Ignoring his concerned tone, Erikson lead you, Barnes and the small group of guards that surrounded you as soon as you moved, down to the brand new training room. Concrete walls, high ceiling, the footsteps echoing over the marble floors. Tall, dark burgundy curtains covered the windows, blocking the outside world from their view. Bucky hadn’t seen the outside sun or air in six months.

 

You hadn’t seen it in only a month, normally you were out every couple of weeks, but breaks sometimes lasted months. The longest was around 8 and a half, you’d been put under ice as another experiment, testing how you would respond to rate drugs while deep in the subconscious.

 

Barnes speaking brought you back to attention. You turned your head towards him, his stammering coming back into focus. “...I thought we would stay here, where, where I was training -“

 

Don’t talk, don’t complain. You watched the expression on the Doctors face remain unbothered. Anger began to filter its way into your mind, as much as the sickness called brainwashing beckoned you back to the isolation of silence.

 

“Please,” 

 

Who gives a fuck what he thinks? The low voice hummed between your ears, that same voice is the one that aids you in the completion of missions, destroying lives, assassinating innocent humans.

 

“Well, you have been prepped, now are ready to be sent off and polished.” The Doctor smiled to himself. 

 

The plan had been set in motion after many long hours in meetings with the Russian government, the RAA and the rest of HYDRA’s top captains. Fighting over the rights to call the Soldiers their own. It all came down to wether you were allowed to be moved from the base, which has been your only location for the past few years (not that you knew that). In the end, they all agreed upon allowing you back to the Academy, whether you wanted to or not. It really did not matter, as you were considered a pawn in the great game they all played.

 

And the board was nearly set.

 

With the Soviet Union nearly at its peak, HYDRA has it fully infiltrated, a spy and soldier would be a perfect addition to the plans of the ICF. 

 

Dr Erikson opened a small silver case that sat in solitude on a metal table in the centre of the vast room. Beside the table were two Mind Chairs, as you named them. The hard, cold stainless steel chairs that held you down with metal attachments while a machine was wheeled around on either side of you, ready to fuck up whatever mind you had left at that point.

 

He turned his back to you and Barnes, hiding whatever he planned to torture the soldiers with behind his form. Without the guards moving, you robotically moved to sit in the chair, holding your wrists out to be unchained. You settled into the chair, your eyes meeting Barnes’, the swirling sea of grey and blue melted through your defences. 

 

“Please,” you tried to tell him, “just do as they say,” but no voice came to you.

 

Barnes nervously took a step back, his new arm whirred, the plates shifting as if he was clenching his muscles, or moved his fingers. He looked over at you, clad in full gear, all black, leather and heavy bulletproof padding. The jacket you wore very closely resembled a straight jacket, covered with straps and buckles over the arms. He watched you calmly be strapped into the chair, she doesn’t look frightened, he tried to reason with himself; but that never went very well.

 

“So,” the Doctor turned around, facing his two subjects, “we seem to be nervous.”

 

“I, I just — I don’ wanna do that again.” Bucky nodded at the blue serum in the vile the Doctor held in his hand. 

 

Erikson smiled, as if Bucky was an innocent child asking a silly question. “We are not going to meddle with your minds today, Soldiers. This here is simply a relaxation device to help soothe the pain.”

 

You sat a little straighter. What had they planned? They never said they were doing any operations. Did General fucking Lennon completely cut you out? All because you revealed HYDRA’s plan for Barnes? Were you back in the system? Prodded along by orders, told what to do?

 

“Our Asset knows of this method,” he nodded to you, “she already has one implantation. But we are ready for a new one, yes?”

 

Trackers.

 

-

 

Your neck was warm to the touch. The skin was tight and prickly, but the cut would heal and be added to your collection of scars etched upon your battle worn [skin tone] skin.

 

The process was that of a simple one, the small silver device was barley the size of a coin, twice as thin. You barley felt the incision, or the blood that beaded out. Once the tracker was in and the small wound stitched closed, the pain began.

 

Bucky thought his arm was bad. The pounding of his head, the stinging pain; the hotness of the small wound nearly tipped him over the edge. His hand shook, the metal remained still. The tracker device seemed to be a pinpoint, and to get used to the body it was embedded in, it projected waves of electricity, desperately attempting to pick the pings off of one of HYDRAs computers in the control centre, one that most likely sat a kilometre below the room the soldiers were in.

 

“That wasn’t too terrible?”

 

You looked up at the Doctor, anger lit aflame in your eyes. Fuck you. “No, sir.” 

 

“The upgraded devices can now finally send a nearly exact location if either of you step off the premises of your new base.” He shrugged, “hopefully in the near future we shall be able to always know exactly where you are.”

 

You then were slowly wheeled around, Barnes’ chair not far behind, still bound to the mind chair, to face the table set with a beautiful metallic layout of surgical weapons, the particular one that caught your eyes was a small glass vile, it’s label reading “PROJECT WINTER: T1” 

 

“Wait—“ the heavy vibration of the mask halted your speech, the pain leaking through your jaw. A sting of a thin needle came out of know where, infecting your bloodstream with yet another chemical, a simple serum to knock you out. “Stop,” your tongue became heavy in your mouth, your muscles relaxed, “what will you —”

 

With your mind on James Barnes, and what the serum meant, you didn’t feel the heavy drowsiness settling over like a heavy grey fog. The doctor, joined by a slim female nurse and around twelve guards watched you attempt to speak, ask about Barnes as the serum gently stole your alertness. The words you had written weeks ago floated back into your quieting mind: protect Barnes.

 

-

 

Bucky was slumped in the chair opposite you, his frame enclosed with hazy darkness, his metal arm chained down tightly beside him. You narrowed your eyes at the way it was bent, unable to move. Why had they bothered? He hadn’t learned how to use it properly. It was too much power for him to handle. You read, hell, re-read and memorized the reports of his first training session, the arm supported more than one hundred and fifty pounds, he had hit his way through a wall, but then in return he could not hold a glass cup without accidentally crushing it to dust or even properly open a door without pulling it from its hinges.

 

‘Work in progress,’ the trainer had written. A work in progress it would be.

 

You stared at him, really taking in his form. He was already muscular, but soon would be made into a machine of agility and strength. His flesh arm would have to match, to some degree, his metal arm. He should be fast, quick on his feet and even quicker in his mind. That was your job.

 

He was already broken, according to HYDRA’s stats, they figured after the mind melts and multiple forms or suffering in the dark, manipulation, some mild starvation and traumatic surgery of a prosthetic he didn’t want, he was broken.

 

Sargent Barnes was ready to be remade. 

 

And it all came down to what you could do to keep him from becoming fully shattered. You knew the process front to back, inside and out. You yourself could make anyone turn to a machine, programmed for HYDRA’s doing. Over the years they had become less strict with you, believing everyday they had you trapped in the sticky web, limbs and mind entangled. So with them allowing you such freedom with the Winter Solider, it gave you time to think. To plan.

 

And plan you did.

 

You had never really thought much about who James Barnes was before the fall. Frankly, you couldn’t give less of a fuck. You recalled his position in the US Army. He was a comrade of the legendary Captain America, aiding the strike team as a talented sniper and on the ground, perfectly skilled in hand to hand battles. You knew he was smart, quick and deadly.

 

American. You knew that already. Fuck, where had you seen him?

 

Dislodging that train-wreck of a thought, you turned your mind to your travels of the world, as you often did during the long, cold flights to other countries. You’d been to America many times. Especially during months before the war, taking out generals and future generals, stealing plans and destroying years of hard work. You had infiltrated the US, Canada and most of the UK, taking up false accents, identifications and life stories, fake pretty smiles, glamorous dresses and flirty hints of hopes and dreams. The men were always very easy, you had been raised in HYDRA knowing that you could use what they wanted to your advantage.

 

Seduction was a strong poison. One that many had befallen to.

 

You weren’t instructed to seduce the Winter Soldier. You were told to be kept or emotions and attachment, and not to give a damn about what he thought of you. That was why you kept the mask on at all times, they wanted that barrier strong.

 

Maybe he needed as mask covering his face as well. You had found yourself ... conflicted. You stared at him then, on the jet in the half darkness, taking in his features, frame and overall form.

 

His eyes were the colour of the sea, grey-blue and, when awake, churning with emotion. His hair, long as it has been weeks since it’s last trim, hung over his face, but it suited him. His shoulders were broader now, the rest of his body was fit, the muscle tone sharpened by the serum made them seem to want to break from his skin. 

 

Sargent Barnes was quite attractive, in your personal opinion. But you couldn’t look at him like that, you refused to think of him in that manner; it was a distraction. Distractions got you killed.

 

But you had never seen another being that caused you such wonder. It angered you. It felt like heavy metallic weights dropping on your head every time you attempted to recall his face. But that, too, was lost in the abyss.

 

He was still knocked out cold, the medication given to a super soldiers, a test subject at that, would have to be a powerful one. You leaned forwards and glanced into the dark cockpit of the aircraft. The pilot and copilot were busy flying and making small comments about the weather. They weren’t focused on you.

 

You quickly unbuckled yourself and stepped across from your side of the jet to kneel in front of James Barnes. Your mission. If only you could remember what you knew him from, where you saw his face, before it was tortured and broken.

 

You knew, deep down. You, the Killer, had met the Winter Soldier before that name even existed.

 

Where had you seen him? Were you sent to kill him? Was it a failed mission? Or are your thoughts purely fiction? And possibly your minor attraction and sympathy for Barnes had conjured a twisted scenario in your mess of a mind in which you had once known him?

 

Your hand tentatively reached out for a moment, as if to gently brush a curl of hair away from his face. Instead you let it fall to touch his right shoulder. His body was warm to the touch. It burned your fingertips. Electric sparks seemed to prick your fingertips as they made contact.

 

“I wish I could remember you,” you murmured in German, the mask over your face made your tone harsh and cold, but your real voice was as sincere as you could make it. 

 

There was nothing more you wanted than to remember.

 

Suddenly he had awoken, murmuring something under his breath. A name, perhaps, his voice was still so dull with sleep. You had froze, your body inches away from his. “Steve?”

 

You said nothing, relying on your silence to coax him into talking more. The name Steve was one he almost always murmured after waking up from a memory fix. He shifted in his seat, his hair falling over half lidded eyes. “I can’t —“

 

“Soldier,”

 

At your words his eyes flicked to yours, it was almost as though he hadn’t yet noticed you. You pulled your hand away, regretting the action of touch. 

 

“I,” he swallowed thickly, his eyes and expression explaining to you that he was searching for words to describe what he’s feeling, “I — something’s wrong.”

 

“What did they do to you?”

 

His head fell back against the top of the seat, under the straitjacket and thick straps keep him held down you could see his glistening skin. “They’ve done everything to me.”

 

—

 

Russia, Royal Academy of the Arts • 1945

 

The jolt of the jet landing on the long landing strip had awakened you, your ears popped, bringing the loud whirring of the engine back into your focus. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, momentarily your head became fuzzy with sleep, you were confused as to what your location was.

 

Right. Jet. Transfer. Barnes. Back to Russia. Shit, Barnes.

 

Where was he? You looked around, peered down the dark red corridor of the jet. You relaxed, having not realized you had tensed upon not seeing him.

 

Barnes was awake, cuffed and ready to be taken off the jet, his jaw muscle moved as he looked down at chains around his wrists. He could break out if he wanted, he could rip the doors off the jet and no one would be strong enough to stop him. 

 

“Ready?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” came a tired and sarcastic response. Barnes was looking up, staring into space as if he was willing himself to be imagining all what was happening to him to be simply a work of fiction.

 

You scoffed darkly. “Du nimmst eine Wache, ich nehme die andere,”

 

“What?” Bucky was too tired to attempt at translating what little German he knew. 

 

Paused, you waited as a random soldier marched past holding cases of your weapons. Switching to english you spoke, “I’ll take one guard,” you jerked your head to the man with the cases, “you take the other.”

 

“Thought you were against escaping this place?”

 

“HYDRA has revealed to me they do not plan to return the loyalty I have shown them my whole life.”

 

“That’s a surprise?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

The captain heard you and snapped something in German, most likely reminding you to watch your tongue. Barnes’ brows raised in surprise at the coldness you suddenly portrayed. Perhaps the full story had come out yet, you were angry, not at him though. Then again, he wouldn’t know.

 

“I told them I wanted to be here,” your voice became dangerously low, “and they believed me. HYDRA was angry with me for talking to you too much.”

 

“So why are you here? With me?”

 

“Good question,” you said dryly, “they simply have no one better than I.” 

 

The reality, what they really had planned, was to always, every second of your short miserable life, it portray their control over you as less than it always was. Lennon couldn’t have given a rats ass over what you’d told Barnes, your memory’s would be erased, nothing you had told Barnes in the past would matter in the present and future. They wanted everything you’ve ever recalled to confuse and anger you. 

 

"Apparently I speak to much." 

 

"This is the most I've heard you talk in weeks," Barnes stated, a small reassuring smile crossed his face. Did he think you beat yourself up over this? No, you got beat up over it. Sent to another location, but they have to make you remember HYDRA. A little electroshock would remind you, right? 

 

You barely felt it nowadays, they'd done it a number of times. Sometimes dousing you in ice filled water, sending harsh shockwaves over your skin, then electric sparks would bond with the water soaked into your skin, clothing and hair, not enough to kill you.

 

They made sure of that.

 

-

 

You and Barnes were re-shackled, bounds tightening like walls closing around you, and lead down a metal ramp off the black jet and out into the fresh cold air. 

 

The academy's grounds were magnificent, statues and gardens backed by a skyline that made everything seem ok, it really was a beautiful place, too beautiful a place to birth the worlds most deadly killers. Your eyes flicked over to Barnes, he was quietly observing, his breathing slightly irregular. Someone yelled something in Russian, you looked over to a sleek car that was brought round. And you knew exactly who was inside, waiting to see you. 

 

An impressively tall woman exited the car, her blonde hair was pulled back into a slick bun, her sharp square face was free of makeup, her clothes were plain, dark blue, but complimented her strong figure. Her light green eyes said she knew forty different ways to kill you with only a pen. “Good evening, soldiers.” She walked with grace and purpose towards you, Barnes, General Lennon and the German guards that accompanied you. Her voice was sickeningly sweet but stern at once. Shivers ran down your back when her dark eyes looked you over. “I am Lana Panarin, assistant director of RAA, Royal Academy of the Arts.”

 

You knew who she was, her very being forced you to recall your time spent at the Academy as a young girl and early teen. It was not long ago you stayed, chained to your bed during the nights to prevent escapement along with twenty some other girls your age, silently waiting to fall asleep, drift off and forget the torture of the day.

 

A typical day in training started with the morning daily book studies: languages, world history, political science, advanced human biology, psychology, maths, the study of the humanities and wars. Then began the physical: contemporary and classical ballet an hour class for each, you had despised ballet, the tight uniforms, holding the perfect posture, balancing on the pointe shoes, reenacting the same routine over and over and over again until your muscles burned. The music would ring between your ears, the low lights stung your eyes, you felt the cold stare of the harsh instructors, watching for any minute mistake.

 

They said the ballet made the girls graceful, light on their feet, like air.

 

They would be perfection at its prime. 

 

What they didn’t see was the heavy weight they carried around no matter what. The pressure of failure, the fear of breaking and paying the price.

 

After that began the combat training, study of weapon handling and survival training. Down in the basement of the Academy was a long gun range, blocked by soundproof walls, a huge gym and pool, then finally the combat cages. 

 

Out of twenty in your class, only twelve graduated. Five made it into the real world, working as silent killers. Before the war, you had kept track of your colleagues, comrades, friends, even. But as far as you could tell, there was only three of you remaining in the world. Some, you assumed, had gone home, hidden from the Academy (that did not believe in quitting) and started new lives. Others were dead, forgotten. And then there was you, returning to what you once called home, as a leader, a high rank official, training the newest and greatest weapon for HYDRA.

 

You greeted the woman in Russian, refusing to bow your head, only speaking lowly, wary of the mask restricting your movements if you raised your voice too much. “K vashim uslugam, direktor.” [At your service, director.]

 

The line of blue uniformed soldiers raised a hand and shouted the Academy’s line. Your eyes scanned the place, basking in the familiarity, it looked as though it was a normal boarding school where rich parents that did not bother with their children sent them. It stood, stories high, painted white, Russia’s national flag stood tall in the middle of the courtyard. Green bushes lined the walkways, sprinkled in snow. Even for spring, it was cold and wet. Your heavy boots sunk in the gravel as you walked. 

 

Director Panarin nodded. Her sharp eyes landed on Barnes, who’s jaw was clenched, eyebrows knitted together. “He is perfect.”

 

-

 

A wave of heavy familiarity gently washed you over as the odd group of humans walked over the threshold, an assassin, a tortured soldier, a Soviet Director, General and an assortment of Soviet guards to escort you. This has been your home for so long. The walls bled your memories, the sick memories of years of torture mixed with pain. Your memories from last week had been erased, nut HYDRA hadn't done the courtesy of taking away the foundation of your creation.

 

"I have instructions," Lennon finally spoke up, sounding uncomfortable. The hypocrisy astounded you, how dare he kick you away from HYDRA, claiming you needed to be taught to be controlled, because you're female you shan't be in charge? He was standing in front of one of the most powerful women in all of the country, handing over his top asset and future face of his company. If you could, you would have laughed. All that urged you was anger. "Their medical records, training plans, etcetera." 

 

Director Panarin took the files without opening them and passed them to a man standing behind her, cast half in the shadows. "Thank you, General. Would you stay for tea?"

 

You and Barnes were only pawns to them, toy soldiers with the strings attached, meant to be played with over tea time.

 

"No, thank you," he turned to leave, stopped, and faced you. His expression turned sour, like he had a sudden urge to strike you where you stood. "Heil HYDRA." He growled, his last offer of dominance over your thoughts. You were trained under his orders to reply those words immediately when spoken to you. 

 

I am going to kill you. "Heil HYDRA." You held his gaze, jaw clenched under the mask. 

 

Director Panarin and Bucky Barnes watched the man turn away from you, finally abandoning the soldier, passing her off to another form of higher power. You should have felt guilt, sadness watching your superior officer walk away, turn his back on you like his enemies. He had been there, taken you from this terrible place and brought you to HYDRA, trained you, given you special treatment, all to stow you away because you didn't follow an order.

 

”That was sweet, no?” Panarin watched General Lennon stalk away with his crowd of burly soldiers. Her eyes focused on you, blank and cold. “Such a waste.”

 

General Lennon curled his fingers into a painful fist, channeling his anger. He had heard that Russian bitch mutter as he walked away, away from all his hard work, you. Perhaps he should have told you the real reason of your removal, you had been lied to so many times he wasn’t certain you would believe him. He should have refused to allow you to leave. He shouldn’t have ever listened to Zola, whatever sick plans he had with the new subject shouldn’t have involved the asset. 

 

There were so many lies.

 

-

 

They separated you and Barnes as soon as the HYDRA jet took off once more, finally leaving you behind, the German assassin part of you forgotten for the time being. You sighed, wishing you felt free. But you had never felt more trapped.

 

The room they temporarily kept you in was a square, painted white, stained with memories, blood and pain. It had a large window where a guard could see you, but you only saw yourself, human formed, red eyes like a demon.

 

A bed was high on the wall, accessible by a four step ladder, the pillow and blankets were thin as paper. But there was no chains to hold you down. If you thought hard enough, you could still feel their coldness, biting into your skin.

 

You has a sudden urge to throw up.

 

Change isn’t your strong suit. Not that you’ve had a change to ever fully panic, this new form of torture and abandonment was a harsh one. You lived between the pages of the horror, but who was one to force you back to the original chapter? One that only laid scarred marks into your mind, incurable and hot they weighed you down, pulling you to the coldness of the floor.

 

You managed to push yourself backwards until you felt the steadiness of the wall, it felt a thousand meters high, you, small and weak, trapped at the bottom. The white light hurt your eyes. You suddenly want to go home. Fuck General Lennon, fuck the Director and her whole operation. Your hands came to pull at the mask, fingers fumbling at the gears and knobs that held the metal and material together, you suddenly couldn’t breathe.

 

The mask hit the floor with a reverberating smash, silencing the first sob that snuck out of you. You fought the feeling down, your throat burning with the need to cry. You weren’t exactly sure you could remember how to cry.

 

You are an asset, trained to murder, infiltrate operations, take them down with your bare hands. You could kill without blinking.

 

No one taught you how to confront emotions. What was this, feeling sick, the flutter of nerves in your stomach, pounding headache and the bitter need to cry, why were you reacting this way, to something as simple as a relocation and a new order?

 

The RAA was known for holding the needle, slowly injecting their prisoners with guilt and worry, gently keeping them trapped in their hands.

 

You breathed deeply, exhaling in a sigh, glad no real tears came. You can’t start being weak right at the beginning of a fresh start.

 

Weak once, and you’ll always be weak.

 

-

 

“Have you seen her like this before?” A new Doctor, named Joninn Mets, inquired upon Director Panarin, his brown eyes fixated upon the black clothed asset curled against the wall of cell. He fixed just round glasses before clicking a new pen so he could take notes.

 

”I have seen many girls break under my care,” Panarin checked her watch, her tone bored and dismissive. “They are all the same.”

 

”She’s ... she’s supposed to aid our W.S programme? No?”

 

”Eh,” Panarin waved a ring fingered hand, the image from your cell camera blinked out and was replaced with a footage of the new asset, Barnes, pacing his vast grey cell. The yellow lights reflected off the metal arm. “We’ll see, just give her a sedative before we move her to Barnes.”

 

The Doctor, brand new and young, not quite learned all the ropes, glanced up at the Director, his brow quirking. “They are in the same cell?”

 

Panarin rolled her eyes. “We have special engagements that connect two cells,” she waved her hand once more and the image expanded to reveal Barnes’ whole cell, “simple metal bars and magnetic shields preventing the assets to property connect.”

 

”Is that what we are supposed to do?” Jonnin Met asked, brushing off his concern with a small laugh, fixed his glasses again, a nervous twitch of his.

 

”Does it matter?” Panarin became annoyed, her accent heavy. “We are killing two birds with only one stone, the Убийца [killer] trains Barnes, and we have the Germans pestering us to keep them in close contact so why not keep them together?” She laughed airily and pressed a green button, an alarm sounded as two tall, burly soldiers entered the assets cell, one hauled you to your feet, the other picked up the mask and tightly reattached the dreadful thing to your expressionless face.

 

Doctor Met watched the soldiers manhandle you out the doors, gripping your arms, one held a gun to the small of your back, gabbing between the heavy material of your combat suit. He stared at her face, her features unreadable. “Wouldn’t that backfire? If they get, um,” he searched for the correct word, “close?”

 

Panarin raised her brow, her thin, ruby red lips curling into a sweet smile. “Doctor, you forget they are not human, they are like animals to us, no emotions. That answer your question?”

 

Met watched on the smaller screen, Barnes was still pacing, taking heavy, tilted strides around his cell, as if the soldier was waiting for the asset. He glanced at the screen, Panarin had the cameras in the halls follow you and the soldiers down the cell block, it was as she knew the place like the back of her hand, she glared into each passing camera, he imagined her eyes red though they black and white recording showed her demotic stare. It was haunting to see a shell of a human walking and breathing. Jonnin Met would always remember how empty the assets eyes were.

 

How inhuman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooow y’all so much stuff happened in this chapter, i got totally carried away. both parts didn’t turn how i wanted but a lot of new ideas formed! this literally should have been spilt into at least 5 parts. but whatever! hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you for reading <3


	9. an easy target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mention of drug use. also v long chapter, 7000+ words ;)

— Russia, Royal Academy of the Arts [The Red Room Academy] • 1945

 

The first few hours, the beginning of the treacherous chapter of pain was oddly silent. Not one soldier, nurse, or general spoke to Bucky. He felt invisible, stuck inside his mind, which in turn, was stuck inside a concrete box. 

 

One thing he did not mind, was the thought and promise that he would see you again, the only person he knew.

 

Or, thought he knew. Wishful thinking, he could call it.

 

Barely hours upon arrival they had transferred each of you from separate rooms into a private cell block (complete with terribly large and scary looking guards). The cell was connected, open in the middle only blocked by a see through wall of electronic waves that created a shield. Metal bars also drew the harsh line between the rooms. The guard could see each angle with cameras, and when one flipped a switch, that meant they wanted the shield on shadow mode, the bars would close and the shield faded to a dark grey, hiding the inmates from each others view.

 

When they shoved you in the room, he noticed the battle gear had vanished, replaced by a black long sleeve, tight fitting shirt, highwaisted black army joggers, thick socks and heavy, steel-toe combat boots. You carried a pillow, towel and a black jacket. The RAA had followed HYDRA’s orders to keep your face hidden and provided you with a temporary mask, thinner than the HYDRA made one but the same in the matter of discomfort.

 

Upon your entrance, Bucky felt himself automatically relax, his shoulders releasing the tension, hands uncurling from nervously clenched fists. He had jumped down from the high bed, landing nearly silently, like a cat. Wanting to speak with you, he waited for the guard to check around your cell, pat you down only to be met with a nasty glare and then, finally, slam the cell door after resetting the security code.

 

You already started working on memorizing the code so you could start to come and go as you please. You tossed the objects on your bed and scanned the cold room, skipping over Barnes, his portion of the cell and the damned shield.

 

This was your new home.

 

The panicked feeling had slowly dispersed as you had walked through the halls, passing vast, beautiful ballet studios, decorated with hazy lights lights, marble statues and paintings created by some of the most talented artists of the time, past the studios and town some marble stairs were the gun ranges, soundproof, painted black and lined with a fully stocked, deadly looking arsenal that held the the most innocent seeming objects that could kill a man by the time one could wink. You would have smiled to yourself, thinking that was perfectly normal combination to have in an all girls academy.

 

You wondered if your being there had caused a scandal, and Barnes — perhaps it was a secret. You wouldn’t have known, Panarin didn’t seem keen to let you in on plans, unlike the idiocy of the Germans, trusting you so easily.

 

You had a lot of information on HYDRA, the War, and even the most in depth secrets and hidden whispers from within the German Government. So, you supposed, if absolutely need be, given that you don’t receive good treatment, you could always trade information to the Soviets, possibly gain some respect within Director Panarin’s steadily cold eyes.

 

 

After setting down your new things, you paved the perimeter of your cell, at approximately ten by eighteen feet, the cell was comfortably large. You knew as the days slipped past, lost in the line of life, the walls would shrink around you, squeezing your lungs and brain, cutting off what freedoms and sanity the cell provided.

 

You were still trapped.

 

A heavy, boiling wave of tiredness and irritation rippled over your system, suddenly dropping into slumber sounded rather like the best thing you could ever do at the moment.

 

Turning away from the barred wall, you stepped closer to the bed, as metallic and uncomfortable it seemed, the thin blankets called you, promising nightmares wouldn’t creep into your dreams just yet. But they whispered lies.

 

Barnes cleared his throat, he moved closer, a soft, concerned look upon his tired features. His jaw clenched, a habit of his, the metal fingers clicked together, the plates shifting and whirring gently. He was unsure of what to say, exactly. “I, um —“

 

“Don’t touch the wall,” your own voice surprised you, sounding gravely and beaten. “And do not speak.”

 

“Oh,” A sinking feeling covered Bucky’s insides, the only thing he desired at that moment was to talk to someone. As fucked up as he felt, and was, sitting in a fucking Russian base with a known professional killer, he was human; he desperately needed someone to tell him it was going to be okay, that he should close his eyes and maybe things will get better in the morning, perhaps he was stuck in a nightmare. Bucky Barnes just desperately wanted someone he could speak too.

 

”I’m sorry,”

 

He watch your small, dark clothed form swagger with heavy, storming steps up to the wall, where he stood. Your starlike eyes blinked up at him, red rimmed and kept of emotions. “No. I’m sorry,” you insisted, breathing heavily. You have never spoken those words and meant it before.

 

Bucky paused, pulling a quizzical expression, he stepped closer to the bars.

 

“Soldier, step back from the wall.” A guard over the intercom snapped, flicking on a red light, casting devilish shadows over the floor, lines, drawn by a force that preyed on the freedom of others. “Lights out in ten.”

 

Both of the soldiers ignored the guards orders, with a scoff he shut the lights off anyways, muttering about disrespectful soldiers and what not.

 

Cast in the darkness, shadows filtering over the angles and contours of the mask, blending to your skin, you continued. “The name of this place is a lie,” you murmured, so quiet Bucky had to lean forwards to hear you.

 

“Huh?”

 

Eyes downcast you spoke, “The real name is the Red Room Academy. I was a student — long, long time ago.” 

 

“Then what’re you sorry for?” The deep voice of Barnes, soft in the angled, cold darkness seemed to soothe you.

 

God, she’s so strange.

 

Why can’t I look away?

 

“That they will do to you what they did to me.”

 

Without another word you hit the button that cast a shadow over the bars, blocking Sargent Barnes from your sight, the burning feeling back, clawing at your throat, twisting your insides, slowly poisoning your mind.

 

You refused to allow Sargent Barnes see you cry.

 

-

 

A week after the arrival you became suited to the new lifestyle. It was as though your life in Germany had suddenly ceased to exist.

 

The new form of imprisonment had simply replaced the former one. You had yet to decide which one was worse.

 

Rising once the morning alarm sounded, you climbed from the bed, waited in the darkness for a guard or worker to reattach the facial covering, they also brought in the breakfast meal, kept of flavour and taste, a small muffin, oatmeal, one small fruit and a small cup of semi-cold black coffee, which you accepted with gratefulness. You had once complained sourly with some of the other soldiers with HYDRA that you’d take the torture over the food that was served, that remark sent you right to the Isolation ward for two days. But still, you had meant it.

 

Then after you still wouldn’t be able to see Barnes, being sent down to a locker room with built in shower pods, there you were to be dressed and expect a list of your daily tasks. Often you ended up in a blocked off medial wing, only accessible to wardens with I.D badges and special cards. You’ve been memorizing pieces of codes each day, mentally writing down the base’s layout.

 

After various tests and note taking the Medics refused to show you, they hooked you up to machines by deep red wires that tangled with the icy blue and white ones. They ran up your arms and needles stung your skin, patches of tape held the flat ends on either side of your temple, the back of your neck and behind your ears.

 

A heavy machine would turn on, rattling and then settling to a steady thrum and soft ticking sounds. They injected some sort of serum into your bloodstream, never speaking, refusing to make eye contact. Like you, a small form of darkness, frightened them or something. 

 

You didn’t want to know what the machine was for. And they sure as hell did not tell you. Inside, you knew they were forbidden to speak to you.

 

You then had the afternoon with some choice in the matter, you could make your way down to the gym centre, where you could chose what you wanted to work on, building more muscle and stamina. Lines of heavy punching bags hung in the centre of the gym. Running machines, weights and even mats for stretching were laid out, free to use.

 

The other option was to join the new recruits, young ladies practicing hand to hand, boxing and other forms of martial arts. Forced to fight against their friends, to beat others, become the best, unbeatable. 

 

You always chose the gym. Not a soul could pay you to go down and see young girls, a mirror reflection of young you. You refused to watch them experience the same torture you once suffered through.

 

-

 

“Your days as terrible as mine are?” Barnes soft tone hit your ears through the gated wall, the heavy metal bars and shield stopped you from contact, but conversing with Barnes was not a problem. If skin came into contact with the wall separating Barnes from you, it would tip off a loud, blaring alarm and send a shock wave hard enough to make one black out for a second or two. You recalled, shifting through the hazy part of childhood memories, sitting exactly the same way with your friend, a thin, white blonde haired girl named Adelaide, you and the rest of the girls in your year had called her Addi.

 

She, while whispering a story of something that happened during lunch hour, or break time — you couldn’t remember— she touched the bar accidentally, the spark nearly sending her across the room, immediately, an alarm blared, making young you shrink into a corner, hands tightly clamped over your ears. 

 

So you sat on the floor, inches from the wall, having your daily after hours conversation with Bucky Barnes in the tilted darkness of the cell. 

 

“They have been forcing me to draw maps, correct machinery, devise programs,” you sighed, boring yourself by mentioning your days work. Leaving out the training and lab trips was a split second decision, why would you bother telling him? He most likely wouldn’t care. 

 

“I’d say that’s better than smashing through walls with a metal arm.”

 

Your eyes flicked to his, under the black mask your lips curved, almost a grin. “I do not dislike smashing things,”

 

Barnes smiled, adjusted his place on the floor with a twist of the metal arm. You watched him think, probably pondering over exactly what he should say. He was adamant about making sure he wouldn’t spook the Убийца [Killer]. 

 

Out of anger during the first week of your stay, you went on a silent streak. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped, no matter what the doctors did you would refuse to speak. Bucky worried about you then, there was rumours drifting around, the students and some teachers believed you were back because something inside your mind snapped, that the asset had completely lost it, gone completely mental.

 

Bucky refused to believe that. He understood that you were in pain, forced to commit such horrific acts and live the life of a robot, branded with marks of a cruel, unforgiving world. 

 

“There’s some bloke watching me, getting a new Doctor to write things down.” He murmured, watching his metal fingers gently press together. It was odd, he felt the metal, as if it coated his own flesh hand, cold as ice. Then all at once, it was almost as though the arm was an alien object, cursed to be a part of him.

 

“It’s only an evaluation, nothing to worry.”

 

“Too late for that.”

 

“I guess you’re right.”

 

It was silent for a moment. You began thinking of your time as a child, nearly breaking under pressure of the Generals and Doctors, observing your every move.

 

Daytime in the Red Room was a long process, a bittersweet lineup of seemingly endless hours. The days dragged on without reason, only to toss you back into the nightmare of blackness, a starless room and screams echoing off the walls.

 

One thing you had wished to never hear again, was the screams.

 

The poor young girls forced to complete the Black Widow program were once innocent, often orphans or stolen, bought or traded by the cruelest humans in the world. They came from broken homes, shattered lives and heartbreak. Brought in as children, they became brainwashed, the ideals and ways of the Red Room slipped in through subliminal messages, hidden hints and whispers.

 

The girls always cried at night. Even the eldest, most far gone. Sobbing over something they hadn’t a clue what they were sad over. You, being born to a nice young German family, your father raising through the ranks of HYDRA, you skipped the brainwashing and killing your friends, and joined the Widow Program without question.

 

You never had a reason to cry at night.

 

But hearing the others rattle the chains and cry for their mother’s, it brought hot, uncontrollable tears to your eyes, forcing you to cry silently, wondering why someone said this would be the best school to go into, that it was only for the best.

 

“What’re you thinkin about?”

 

“Why do you want to know?” The icy tone was back, laced with sternness. Angry at Sargent Barnes for breaking off your thoughts. Long dives into the slowly emptying pool of memories was something to be treasured, as horrific as they were.

 

Barnes shrugged his metal shoulder, looking as though he wished he hadn’t spoken. “You looked lost, that’s all.”

 

You shook your head as you switched to a more comfortable position on the hard, cold floor, crossing your legs you leaned your elbows to prop them on your knees, the chin of your mask resting atop your fists, mirroring Barnes. “You cannot see me, how could you say I seem lost?”

 

He half rolled his eyes, silently telling you that wasn’t what he had meant. You stared at him, waiting for him to continue. “Most of the time it feels like I’m starin’ at a brick wall, but in small moments, I can catch an emotion or two.”

 

That statement saddened you. The crushing feeling of never being enough heavily weighed down upon your whole being, you tried to not allow it to affect you. “I’m not a fan of brick walls.” 

 

“Me either. Brooklyn was full of it, got really fuckin’ boring to look at.”

 

Instead of revealing a smile, you took to shaking your head, as though gently disapproving of his words but seeing the humour of them. Was this what it’s like, to normally converse?

 

“They really won’t let you take that thing off, huh?” Bucky nodded at the mask, genuinely curious to see what you looked like.

 

“хотелось бы [I wish].” You uttered, becoming shy, eyes focused down on your boots. 

 

“Why don’t you just take it off yourself?” A innocent remark, brought on by little experience within HYDRA’s rules. 

 

“I would rather not get killed.”

 

Little did Barnes know, going against orders brought on a punishment you only wish you died from.

 

-

"Soldier, up!" 

 

You scrambled from the bed, feeling awake instantly, afraid of what the guard would do if met with non compliance actions. "Sir,"

 

The guard roughly shoved a stack of tactical training gear into your arms. "Get dressed, there is someone here that Director Panarin would like you to see."

 

\- 

 

BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP.

 

Bucky was once again startled awake by the ear splitting alarm, waking everyone in the Academy up not so kindly. 

 

Where the hell am I? For a few split seconds he thought he was back home, in his flat that he had shared with Steve back home, in Brooklyn, before the damned war. He definitely wasn’t at home. Then he had to figure out where he was, and as the sleepiness left him, the reality of where he was trapped came rushing back.

 

Not home. Somewhere in Russia. A prisoner.

 

Bucky sat up, the uncontrollable feeling of sudden panic and sadness overwhelming him.

 

Still trapped.

 

He looked over at your side of the cell, the shadow had been lifted, but there was no trace of you. Not in the bed or near any walls. Had you left early? Bucky thought for a moment, every single day upon arriving in the fucking Russian form of hell, he would wake up, in a panic, forgetting where he was but once he saw you were there, glaring at the walls or staring at the door, waiting for a guard, it would instantly relieve him, knowing that he could at least be around one he trusted.

 

Then again, he had no choice.

 

The days before, his current trainer (a sort of friendly old Russian man, less strict than any instructor Bucky had had. He was eager to retire, hence the wasting of time talking with Bucky). One day as they boxed he offered Bucky some advice. Whispered words explaining how things were done at the ‘Academy of the Arts’ (a stage name, so the rest of the world wouldn’t realize it was indeed the myth of a place called the Red Room). He was told to keep his head down, don’t speak unless spoken too, accept any food they give you — you couldn’t guarantee when the next meal was coming. Take punishments without question. Don’t talk back, fight back or engage with any of the superior officer. And don’t, under any circumstance, piss off The Killer.

 

“Her?” Bucky had then dropped his boxing gloved hands, paused to glance over where his cellmate and maybe friend was shooting and reloading semi-automatics with frightening speed and agility. It was almost robotic the way you unloaded the clip without shifting, without uneven breath, it looked as though you were doing something as simple as tying your shoe. 

 

“Ya, her.” The man had also stopped to watch you set down a gun, pick up a bigger one, that was nearly the size of your torso, with ease and basically tear the dummy some hundred yard away apart. Every bullet hit the head of the dummy. “I heard she is the new trainer, yes?”

 

Bucky wasn’t paying attention. Too busy watching you. The man shook his head and had knocked on Bucky’s metal shoulder. He snapped his gaze off of you. “Hm?”

 

The man had smirked slyly and switched to English, though tilted with a rough accent so still hard to understand. “She is your trainer? The Killer?”

 

“I s’pose so,”

 

“Be mindful of that one,” came the warning. Bucky remembered being confused, you hadn’t shown yourself to be insanely violent. “She could turn and kill you whenever she wants. They say she’s back here to be under close observation.” 

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Words going around that she’s close to her breaking point. Maybe training you will get her back in the good books. But if you mess up, son, you probably won’t survive. And don’t get to trusting her, these girls are built to penetrate men’s weaknesses, take ‘em down from from the inside. They will make you regret you ever was born.”

 

Bucky remained silent.

 

“She’s in the top ranks, she is. Killed more than I bother to count. Anyway, back to my advice, don’t make it personal with that girl. If you could even call that монстр [monster] a girl.”

 

Those words echoed in Bucky’s head as he paced his section of the cell. You didn’t seem crazy to him. A word he would use is collected. Calm, even. Could it all be a ruse? Maybe during the night you’d tried to escape. The words you exchanged with Bucky on the jet had stayed with him. You were angry, HYDRA was no longer loyal.

 

Back in reality, the cell door opened and Bucky turned, expecting his usual escort but instead found a guard of higher rank, clothed in red and black instead of grey, equipped with a stunner and a small gun at their hip. They were masked, Bucky almost wondered if it was you, but the figure was too tall and appeared with a more masculine build.

 

He was promptly cuffed and patted down, searched incase he had stashed a weapon anywhere on his person, then lead out of the dark prison.

 

Another day was starting. 

 

The guard lead him down through the dark halls, the building was still sleeping, the halls kept of shadows of passing soldiers and Academy students, there was no one to stare at the arm, or whisper behind their hands as he passed, and Bucky was grateful for that at least. Still, the unsettling bubble of worry over where you were kept him on alert.

 

“Wait,” the guard stopped him, reaching out to grab onto Bucky’s arm, he had tried to go the normal route back upstairs to the gym he was used to training in. Already stuck in the routine of this place. “We go through here.”

 

“Why?” 

 

No answer came. The guard pulled him through two sets of doors, down a curved, marble floored hall, walled with magnificent painted portraits and landscapes, into a vast sitting room packed with breathtaking decor and furniture that looked more expensive than Barnes’ old flag. The room also chillingly held huge combat cages, a horrific sign that told Bucky that that was where they judged the girls before graduation. One of the most beautiful rooms he’d been in was also one of the most disturbing.

 

They left the room and turned down a small hall that lead into a grey, square room that held about four smaller doors that lead to changing rooms. The guard proceeded to remove the cuffs from Bucky’s sore wrist and pointed him to go into the first one.

 

Bucky walked, his metal hand covering his sore wrist, into the room. He found a small pile of black combat clothing and boots, dressed quickly, wanting to avoid having the guard come in and rush him out. Bucky, now clothed in new training and workout pants and shirt, black to match his combat boots and singular glove he pulled onto his metal hand, turned to leave the changing room.

 

He caught a glance of himself in the mirror, pausing at the door, nearly frozen in shock. Bucky looked so different, could barely recognize himself. Then again, his mind and memory left him more and more as the long days slipped away.

 

-

 

Bucky stared around the new gym. It was empty except in the corner near the boxing ring and punching bags were two women, one he immediately recognized as you, being on the shorter side, clad in all black, the restricting mask covering all of your face, your hair free of braids, let down to be natural for once; Bucky had to take to memorizing the way you stand, and the way you conversed with others, because if not he would never recognize you free from the horrific mask, it reminded him of walking through torn cities in Italy, children wearing salvaged gas masked, the cracked, dust stained glass covering their eyes, the leather, flimsy and torn, made them look disfigured and grotesque — but was the only think keeping the children alive. You had told him, whispered in the night, that the mask was the only thing allowing you to keep this mission, and if he didn't know who you really were, it was safer, in the end, for Bucky as well. 

 

He stopped short, glancing around the gym, it seemed to be only himself, the guard, you and the other mysterious woman. The guard un-cuffed him without a word and returned to his post by the tall metal doors. Bucky flexed his silver hand, used to the small whirring of the machine. He waited for you to notice him, but you seemed entranced in conversation with the rather frightening women beside you. She was tall, slim but toned, her raven black hair was cropped short, the sides gelled back against her scalp, Bucky noticed razor marks, small designs shaved into her closely shaven undercut. Her face was chiseled and slim, with a strong nose and stronger darkened brows. She matched you perfectly on a ‘don't fuck with her’ level. 

 

He wondered if that was one of your fellow graduates from the Red Room, you had mentioned a friend. By your quickly paced Russian conversation, you had much to say. Bucky was too tired to even bother at attempting to understand what was being said. 

 

You had noticed him as soon as the doors opened, but before the training session had begun, Nadia Kalveria had entered the gym, intent on seeing you. She was a comrade from the early days in the Red Room, your teenage cell mate, mission partner and sister, not biologically, but she and you had taken a blood oath on the night of your first ever mission, as a sign of loyalty.

 

You hadn't seen Nadia in so long, for a very few moments you couldn't remember who she was.

 

That was because she wasn't the Nadia you had grown up with. Her demeanour had changed, gone from a sly, secretive but bright young agent, she had bleed into the side of regret, disappointment and dead ends. Her last mission was to infiltrate one of the illegal weapon traders based in London. Those men were foul, made her do terrible things, more awful that what she'd grown up learning, and soon, she had forgotten she was acting, and slipped away into a dark world under the streets of London. The Soviets thought her dead, killed and thrown into River Tames, but that wasnt the case. 

 

She had left the life of killing and turned to something that killed her, only slower. A drug named Heroin had been appearing more and more, and it just made everything so easy. 

 

She had come to say goodbye, the Soviets examined her and saw her fit to never return back in the field, instead of pulling her and sending her to receive possibly the best mental health treatment the world had to offer, they were flying her out to a 'rehabilitation centre'. And you knew girls who went there never came back. 

 

"I just had to see you, and your little project, huh." Nadia managed a small smile, a twisted scar on her lip made the action difficult, but nevertheless you saw her smile. With a glance back at Barnes, you shrugged a shoulder.

 

"I have plans for this one."

 

"HYDRA is ... no more?"

 

"I suspect we will make our rounds, but for now, this is home." You looked down at your boots, unsure of yourself. "Nadia — " 

 

"Its okay, yes?" Nadia shook her head, knowing you would want her to stay. When called upon Panarin to come and greet someone, you never expected an old friend. "I'm okay."

 

You switched to english, eyebrows knit with sudden anxiousness. "You're sure? Once I move up in rank I could request a -"

 

"No, don't bother." Nadia pulled you into a hug, her slim, scared arms wrapped around your broad shoulders, which stiffened upon contact. She squeezed you tightly, bent her head to whisper in your ear, "You need to get out of here." She released you with a blank expression, her thin lips set, the scar not allowing her mouth to fully close. With your eyes wide, you nodded, standing to attention out of muscle memory, your hands staying at your sides.

 

"I will.'

 

"Promise?"

 

"Promise."

 

-

 

After Nadia was taken out, through a back room and into the jet hanger, you walked over to Barnes, who had been watching with an unreadable expression. “Ready.” You came forwards, your tone telling Bucky that it wasn’t a question, it more more like a statement. He stepped up to the mat, somewhat nervously. He hadn’t a clue what was planned for the days training.

 

You waited as the guard came forwards with a bored look on your face, checked you over for weapons, you had a habit of stealing the daggers, knives and handleless blades, concealing them on your person, it had come in handy back at HYDRA, where stabbing unwanted assailants was a fond hobby of yours. Your mind spun, thinking over what Nadia had told you — get out of here— the only way you could do that, was train.

 

"I said, ready?" As soon as the guard left you dug deep in a pocket and revealed yet another concealed stolen weapon, you flipped it in the air, waiting for Barnes' answer, your mind caught in a daze, rapidly spinning and planning on how exactly you could honour your friend and not be murdered by all of Soviet Russia. 

 

"Yes?" Bucky fed off of your distraction, worried the guard would come and see the knife, would be blame you or him? Worry swirled around him, pulling rational thoughts from his mind. 

 

"Good. Today is target practice, tomorrow, we spare. Next, gun range." You stalked over to the table and showed him an elite selection of weapons. Thin, dangerous looking gives that could be hidden under sleeves and gently inserted into the victims neck, long, angled daggers that could rip ones throat out, ("That one is too bloody, leaves more of a trail,") or a simple, short bladed dagger used to throw (“perfect”).

 

You picked up a handful of them and tossed one to Bucky, who caught it expertly.

 

The hours went by, you silently showing him how to conceal different weapons under specific armour, how to hold it properly with his silver arm, the knowledge you held seemed endless, an answer to every question came almost instantly, or a short sarcastic remark made itself into the lessons, Bucky found it almost therapeutic, the way you seemed to be calm, doing something you had control over. You went over the moves, tossing and catching of the blades, he caught on very quickly, moving professionally through the levels of basic blade work. His movement was fluid, powered by heavy muscles and strict determination. He was intimidating once the moves were down, you had shown him how to disarm, block with his metal arm (which you informed him would be an exellent sheild agaisnt bullets, knives, even swords — to which Bucky looked somewhat alarmed) and then kick the knife out of the attackers hand, wrap your arm under there, use leverage and pull them into a choke hold. 

 

"Try on me now." You said, handing him the knife after you'd disarmed him countless times. Picking up your own weapon you stepped around him, waiting for a moment to attack. With springing step, you advanced, the short blade whizzed through the air, a direct shot to his throat, his metal hand came down, perfectly blocking your strike, with a turn of the silver wrist, he had a hold of you. You saw a chance, with one wrist caught you ducked under his arm and turned to elbow him in the face.

 

But he caught you.

 

Gripping your elbow he let go of your wrist, twisting it so your dropped the small weapon. With a jerking movement he turned you around, metal arm pinning your own arm to your side, whist his flesh hand held his blade within inches of your throat. You were disarmed and trapped, your back tight against his hard chest. "Well," his cold, deep voice close to your ear, "that was easier that I thou-" 

 

With a burst of energy you drove your elbow into his ribs forced him to lighten his grip, snatched the blade away with your gloved hand, wrapped both your hands around his fist and twisted, Bucky didn’t even see your leg snap out to kick him, he dropped to a knee, softly groaning in pain. You stepped closer, pressed the sharp tip of knife into the very place Bucky’s heart hammered in his chest.

 

“Stab. You’re dead.”

 

“You’re only a little bit distracting.” Bucky’s mind travelled back to moments ago, how odd yet comforting it felt to be pressed so snugly to you, your steady heartbeat in his ears, determination in the air. The aura that surrounded the soldiers crackled with electricity.

 

You scoffed, stepped away from the soldier and handed him back his knife. “The way you use that arm is pathetic. Come, I’ll show you target practice.” And with that you lead him down past the boxing ring to a long-ish corridor that in width was spread about forty feet, and length in varying measurements, the shortest being only five feet, the maximum throwing distance stood at about fifty feet.

 

“We use a different blade for throwing, typically concealed at the hip. Or in my case, thigh holster.” You began, rifling through a bin of training knives that were guaranteed to not reflect back and promptly stab someone upon throwing the weapon, they still were sharp as hell. “Your arm could throw much faster than any normal soldier.”

 

You showed him how to hold them, how the arm should be positioned and then the way to release the blade. Going over the movement slowly, you felt they soldiers eyes on you, watching, eager to perfect the move. “Go,” 

 

Bucky picked up a knife with his metal hand, gripping the handle. His positions mirrored yours a little too well, and with a whirring through the air ending in an echoing thwap the knife imbedded itself in the target, cleaning stabbed into the red centre bullseye. You wanted to ask if he’d done that before, but stayed silent, watched as the each of the blades landed on each target.

 

“Keep going.” You turned and walked around to the wall, where a small clear box flipped open to reveal a small, round button. That, when pressed, would activate the targets, making them rumble to life, move back and forth, side to side — making it harder to accurately hit the target. You crossed your arms, turned back to the soldier and waited for him to try again.

 

“Really?” He sighed, twirling the blade over his flesh fingers.

 

“No complaining,” you said, stepped up back on the mats and, without glancing at Barnes, resumed darting the knives. He watched you, concentrated on one target, slightly crouched, muscles tense, ready to spring. Then in all of a split second you were up, arm released and the knife struck the board with perfect accuracy.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky murmured to himself. He watched a second longer, then resumed, taking up a challenge within him self to be as great as you.

 

-

 

The sudden faint smell of blood that arose to your senses alerted you, turning slowly around you faced Barnes, who was gently cradling his flesh hand; the cream coloured palm, ridden with small flashes of scars and calluses had an new addition, a bright red cut in the centre of his palm, steadily leaking blood and dripping onto the mats.

 

“Damn,” Barnes stared at his wound curiously, it took you a moment to realize that that was his first injury since the operation. He wouldn’t have been feeling any pain. He looked up at you, a look in his grey-blue eyes told you he hadn’t a clue of what to do.

 

“Soldiers!” A tall, angry looking guard barked, hands moving down to grasp a weapon at his belt, a heavy metal rod equipped with electric ends, held long enough against flesh it burned searing red marks. “Back to work.” 

 

With a tone only one could describe as bored, you spoke: “He is in need of a medic,” rolling your eyes, you turned towards the guard, waiting for him to retrieve someone who could patch Barnes up. During your training, mistakes lead to punishment, which lead to further injury, resulting in you practically living in the medical wing, patched up by small, timid nurses that were most likely just as abused as you were.

 

Bucky stepped up beside you and showed his bleeding hand. A small amount of pain had pooled in the cut, not as much as it should have though. The guard observed the blood, scoffed sourly and jerked his head to the side of the arena where a red First Aid cupboard stood. He stayed put at his post, his dark eyes telling you he was expecting you to retrieve the supplies. You looked around, there was no one else in the gym.

 

Guards often took the chance to be lazy, with mind numb soldiers drowning around they could easily take advantage.

 

As you walked over there the guard tossed you a key, catching it expertly you quickly unlocked the doors and pulled them open, revealing stacks of supplies, bandages, tape, gauze, anti-infection medication and much more that all looked the same to you. Pulling out some snow white wrappings and medical tape, you closed the cupboard door with your booted foot as you turned and stalked back to the waiting injured soldier.

 

“Hurry up.” You shoved the supplies in his un-injured hand, avoiding his gaze — feeling the guard watching your every move under a steely glare — you turned your back on Barnes and picked up the practice daggers, the one handle had drips of blood, making it sticky. You wiped it off on your tactical pants, and faced the target once more, mind back to destroying the targets.

 

Behind you, now a little ways off the mat, Bucky was silently struggling with his human hand that he could properly control injured and bleeding (more profusely then) unable to wrap he wound, he set to gently working on controlling the metal appendage. The hand made jerking movements, nearly tearing the gauze in two. His brow furrowed, furiously trying to concentrate on doing the task. The fingers wouldn’t close properly around the end of the tape. Frustration slowly built, Bucky cursed, the pathetic feeling of helplessness overwhelming him. The steady twack-ing sound echoing around the gym of The Killer perfectly hitting the bullseye each time she threw the daggers rung in Bucky’s ears, adding tension.

 

“Fucking Christ,” he dropped the tape, the stupid thing basically jumped from his hand. He wanted to give up right then, just bleed out and die. That was possibly a tad over dramatic, but the pulsing stinging pain was starting to become more and more relevant as time went on. And no one seemed to notice. 

 

He bent to pick up the bloody spotted bandage, but suddenly you had appeared silently and beat him to it. Annoyed he was taking forever to simply dress a small cut, you had ceased the action of throwing knives and turned to see your soldier struggling to be gentle with the metal hand. A small frown dimpling his features.

 

You snatched the white wrappings and straightened up, avoiding his gaze.

 

Bucky watched in momentarily stunned silence as you removed your short black gloves, let them fall at your feet and pulled his injured hand close, holding it up for inspection. The softness that settled in your eyes (the only part that revealed what little emotion you had) made Barnes’ worry melt into ease.

 

Maybe she’s not that bad.

 

“Oi! No contact!” The guard yelled, his voice loud and echoing.

 

You quickly snapped in Russian, turning away from Bucky, who watch the scene with apprehension, he really didn’t want to get the stunner again, or be separated from you and send down to the medical wing. The guard seemed to bored to bother, went back to standing by the door, his stunner back in the holder.

 

Now back to uttering what Bucky recalled were some colourful Russian curses, you set to wrapping the wound. With careful fingertips you unraveled some gauze, biting your lower lip in concentration under the mask. Your hands were cold and small against his own warm one.

 

At the touch of your skin to his your heart skipped a beat, and righted it’s track, only thumping faster in your chest. Pushing down the unwanted feeling, you quickly wrapped the bandage once more and set to tying it. You hadn’t touched anyone this gently in so long. Your eyes grazed over his arm, the veins and muscle more noticeable as he built his strength. He only wore a tight fitting t-shirt and tactical pants, complimenting his fit build even more. And the metal arm stood out magnificently, a stark contrast to the warmness of his hand.

 

You realized you’d been staring, lost in your own mind. Sargent Barnes’ hand was shaking, his breathing slightly uneven, eyes run over with confusion. Maybe he, too, was in a sea of conflicted emotions, trying desperately not to drown. “Thanks,” his voice soft as summer wind.

 

Regaining whatever sort of posture you had before, unbeaten by waves of unwanted bursts of feeling, a strong soldier, you tied the bandage securely and dropped his hand, as though it burned you.

 

“Back to work, soldier.”

 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for over 80 hearts, & thank u sm for reading my story <3
> 
> dont be afraid to comment, even if it’s just ‘cool chapter’ i’ll still appreciate some form of feedback :)


	10. Welcome to New York

**— Germany, hidden HYDRA base • 1940**

 

“You got this, soldier.” Armin Zola clapped the new recruit heartily on the shoulder, making the soldier half grin as an attempt to be calm under pressure. “You will not fail.” A warning? A promise?

 

“No, sir.” The soldier stood at attention as a female officer clipped his new name badge and Soviet Union I.D and number card onto his black Official uniform. His new identity was now confirmed, the name his parents gave him forgotten, his achievements and reputation her acquired in Germany would vanish.

 

“We shall see you in a few years.” General Lennon stoically said, offering a large hand for the soldier to shake. “The plan is now in motion, thanks to you, unser neuer mitarbeiter [our new operative].”

 

“Sir,” the agent looked between his Officials, eager to please, afraid to fail. He shook Lennon’s hand with his own shaking and sweaty palmed hand. The train was about to leave, billowing clouds of grey smoke and shrill whistling filled the air. He unclipped his HYDRA pin and took the red and gold armband, depicting the name of the base he would infiltrate, and the name of the nation. Then he picked up his bags, turned and stepped onto the train, leaving the past behind him.

 

He turned and gazed back at the generals, spoke softly under his breath. “Heil HYDRA.”

 

—

 

— Russia, the Red Room Academy • Late summer, 1945

 

 

The swinging yellow light cast circling shadows around the small confinement room, where a steel table, two chairs on opposite sides and a one way glass window seemed to watch you, sitting slouched in one of the two uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tightly over your chest, finishing your pissed off demeanour.

 

The first meeting, after only a month or so (who kept track of days now?) back at the Red Room was about to begin. Director Panarin was soon going to be seated across from you, her thin, blood red lips shut in a perfect line, and eagle-ish eyes narrowed at you over her nose. You’d only seen her a handful of times, passing you in halls or checking in on the Winter Soldiers process as he trained with you.

 

You yawned under the mask, shifting uncomfortably as it automatically tightened around your jaw, not permitting any sort of sudden movement. You were tired, muscles and spirit more trodden down in the darkness of exhaustion; and another matter, Barnes had kept you up late the last week or so, his lists of questions whispered between the bars of your shared prison cell had begun to bother you.

 

You just simply couldn’t answer them.

 

With the training picking up, so had the chilling process of memory removal. James “Bucky” Barnes was slowly drifting away, lost in a hazy fog, his personality, his recollection of age, status, past memories of family and friends were soon to be vanished by mind wipes and harsh cleanings made by HYDRA and Soviet scientists. He would soon be stripped bare, left only a shell of the person he once was.

 

They figured him being a soldier, most of his soul would have been shot down amongst the fallen in the War, but it was revealed to you that Bucky Barnes — Soldier, Asset, Subject, you were ordered to name him — had much more to himself than he let on.

 

He had told you about growing up in the big city, the freedom, the sense of community. His words became twisted as time dragged past, he would forget names, mention offhandedly that his mums own name was Wendy, maybe Winnifred ... something like that. He’d lost them so long ago he couldn’t remember. He talked about his time in the war, his new friends he made there, and his best friend Steve. It’s hard to remember his face now, he told you, but I can hear his voice.

 

He couldn’t remember what side of the war he fought on. It all felt the same, he had sighed, and it’s not like it matters, m’dead anyways.

 

Hearing that caused a conflicting storm to cloud your mind, the feelings attached themselves tightly to your twisted form of a conscience.

 

You have never felt that way, not in your entire career.

 

It saddened you deeply, but what could you do? You couldn’t hide crumpled pieces of paper under the mattress, and read out Sargent Barnes’ whole life when he came back from the lab, eyes foggy and forgetful? There was no possibility that you wouldn’t get caught, the Red Room was ten times more austere than HYDRA would ever be; in your own case, that is.

 

All you had the power and potentially you held over the Officials was to train Barnes to be the best soldier he could be under your protection. And to keep minuscule parts of him, remind him he was indeed human, and that his memories wouldn’t be lost forever.

 

You sighed, lifted your black clad legs up to rest on the top of the table, bored of waiting for Panarin. If it was so important, why wasn’t she here? You sighed again, letting your head roll back to stare up at the ceiling, counting each mark in the grey concrete.

 

Finally, after what felt like hours the door opened. Cracking your neck you straightened up, legs slipping off the table and boots landing back on the hard ground, dark eyes narrowed on the woman that entered, accompanied by two guards, a nurse and a tall, mean, preying looking young man holding a file and stunner.

 

“Afternoon,” Panarin spoke politely, she took the file, sat down primly at the chair opposite of you, her ankles crossed under the table, thin hands clasped in front of her. She wore an all white suit, complete with a matching USSR armband, the traditional red and gold custom printed snow white.

 

She nodded at the nurse, who timidly stepped closer to remove your mask, her nimble fingers picking at the different knobs and locks, then finally it came free from your face. As you opened your mouth wide to stretch out your jaw, hands coming to rub the aching joint, the nurse held the mask like it carried a horrid disease and left the room, her heals clicking at a scurrying pace. Probably taking it back to the lab to have it tightened or go under re-adjustments — you had a habit of trying to break it from your face when bored, resulting in new masks with more locks and heavier metal.

 

Lana Panarin smiled sweetly as she watched you rub some feeling back into your cheek muscles. “Guard 1887, pat her down please, we don’t want any accidents.”

 

'Accidents' meant you stabbing someone or flipping a table and trying to break the glass window. But that hadn’t happened for a while.

 

Rolling your eyes you stood up, pushed the chair back with your foot and held out your arms, waited patiently for the snake-ish looking male guard to come forwards and run his hands over you. Your cold eyes stared daggers into his frame as his hands lingered for maybe a second to long in some places.

 

You said nothing, knowing that if you spoke he would punish you, Panarin would punish you and send you away for speaking without permission. You let his hands feel down your legs and up your sides, grazing over your chest ever so lightly before he was done. Then he turned and said to Panarin that you had no weapon.

 

“Она чистая [she’s clean].”

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Close the door on your way out, please.”

 

Fuming, you pulled the chair closer and dropped back into it, muscled thighs spread and arms leaned on the table, you were ready and anxious to get the meeting over with. But Panarin waited, and you cursed silently in your mind and sat proper, back straight and shoulders aligned, feet planted firmly in front of you, palms resting flat on your lap.

 

“There we go. Now,” she opened Barnes’ file, reading it over, then she prompted you with the first question, “in what ways would you describe the Subjects progress?”

 

“It is going well.” you said, not wanting to explain yourself and Barnes — the subjects — progress to that witch of a woman.

 

“Elaborate?”

 

“It is going very well.”

 

“Soldier...” she tutted. A warning.

 

“The subject shows no signs of quitting, he has passed all my tests and will soon preform better than any student here.” You shrugged, keeping it simple.

 

“How is his mental state?”

 

You scoffed darkly, “for one who is receiving weekly brainwashes and wipes,” you trailed off, shaking your head a little bit, going over the figures in your mind. “I would say in the grey part. Not quite where you want him to be.”

 

“Mm,” Panarin made note, happy you were complying with her questions. “And you? How are you reacting to the task at hand?”

 

“I’m perfectly fine.” You lied, your tone never changing, eyes focused on the wall behind Panarin and the strange man that stood silently behind her, committed to become a part of the wall the way he didn’t move.

 

“You haven’t experienced a change of emotions, being this, erm, close to a subject?” She danced carefully around what she really needed to say.

 

“No.”

 

“Not any feeling any sudden desires?”

 

Scowling, you leaned forward a bit in your chair. “My mission is to train the face of the Soviet Union, not to sleep with him.”

 

“Good, good. That is what I want to hear.” She flicked through the files papers, eyes reading over field notes and short documents written by you over the weeks. “Though we have the resources,” her eyes flicked up to glance at your stoney expression, “I heard HYDRA even allowed you to venture out once in a while.”

 

You refused to answer. Shame rolled over you, is that what they had said? Had Lennon told all the officials you were some whore, and should be questioned whether you became too attached to a soldier you trained? No, you shouldn’t feel ashamed, half the dirty guards in that place would sleep with you in a second if you asked. With a shiver, you realized that it probably what Director Panarin meant by ‘resources’. Disgust filled your body, you crossed your arms and waited for the it to be over, you wanted nothing more than to go down and beat the fuck out of a punching bag, unload a full clip right into a wall or even just kick something.

 

But you didn’t, staying calm and collected you answered the rest of her questions about Barnes. You felt as though you were betraying him, revealing his stats to the Director. But you had no choice, did you? Not yet, while you were still down in rank.

 

“How do you feel about working with him in the field? Would you trust he should follow our orders?”

 

Your brow arched, huh, you would have to think on that answer. He barely took your orders, always challenged you, in return received many threats. “I am ... working on that.”

 

“I expect that to be your main focus these coming weeks.”

 

“Yes, m’am.”

 

"And you? Up for any outside missions?"

 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

 

"Once we explain what we have planned, soldier, we shall be sending you out to ... collect certain substances we are in need of at the labs."

 

You nodded silently, giving your approval to complete the mission. Panarin smiled at you, glad you were bering ever so complacent. She had been right, the Killer is better off back in the hands of the USSR, they took care of her. They are her family, no matter who her father was back in Germany. That did not matter. The USSR had plans to cut their ties with HYDRA upon receiving the two Assets. Now they had them, entrapped in their wicked plans, bonded by legal contracts. They could take over the broken world.

 

“You have been wondering who is this man behind me, no?” Panarin closed the Winter Soldiers file and slid it aside, upon her words, the man who had remained silent and unmoving during the whole interview, stepped into the light.

 

You stared, taking him in. He had a stocky build with broad shoulders under his army jacket, huge arms and a muscular form, his hair was cropped close with what was called the soldiers shave, basically a thinly shaven mohawk, the longer part curled in tight, dark brown waves and brushed over his brow. He had light green eyes and a sour expression, like he always seemed to carry bad news. You noticed a couple tattoos on his neck and a small earring in his right ear.

 

You’ve seen him before.

 

Not there, at the Academy. But someplace else.

 

“This is Vasily Karpov, the head Official and creator of the Winter Soldier program.” Panarin informed, raising a hand to beckon Karpov further into the light. He stepped closer, and as his face and features registered into your mind, you began to realize where you knew him from, pieces of his form were put together like a blurry jigsaw puzzle, the real picture hidden under the wide brushstrokes of memory loss.

 

“I am pleased to have such a valuable asset included in the programme.” His attractively deep, accented voice made it only more frustrating to try and recall where you knew him from. He switched to english, “I look forward to working with you.”

 

“As do I,” you nodded at at the man, stood up to shake his hand, you could preferably be on this new generals good side.

 

Panarin looked between her new assets, pleased they were civil with each other. The last thing she needed was another great soldier being cut from the programme. “I’ll have your new badge and I.D card send to your room.” She told you, a small smile was sent your way, meaning you should tell her how grateful you are to have that opportunity. You hated how she named your cell a ‘room’ as though it wasn’t a hell hole of torture.

 

“Thank you.”

 

"In a weeks time, once we've decided you are one to trust, we will allow you full access around this base."

 

And that was just what you wanted to hear.

 

-

 

The man Valsily Karpov lead you back to your cell, where you could get dressed into tactical gear and then make your way down to the training rooms where Barnes was most likely waiting for you. Staring at his wide shoulders as he lead you, you wracked your mind for some clue as to where you knew him from, where had you seen his face?

 

"You settling in good?" He startled you by speaking, most escorts remained silent, as if you were invisible to them. You didn't answer, still wary of his presence around you, and how strikingly familiar he was. "It took me a while, but look where I am now."

 

He turned onto your cell block, opened a door with a special I.D badge — one you would soon own — and allowed you to walk through, gesturing with his hand as if saying 'ladies first'. Suspicious, your eyes stayed on him as you past through the door, the beeper went off and the door slammed shut behind the both of you. The cellblock was quiet, only the sound of yours and his breathing. Due to the super soldier enhancement, his heartbeat thumped steadily in your ears.

 

"This way," he walked with purpose, leading you back to the cell. Before you got to the door, he turned, facing you. Stopping, a sudden alertness washing over you, what was this man doing? His hand on the password punch-in pad, he stopped, his green eyes fixated upon you.

 

"What do you want?" Keeping a cold demeanour, you prepared for anything.

 

"You don't remember me?" He pretended to pout, his free hand rested on his chest. You refused to answer, afraid if you did, there would be considerable consequences. "Maybe this will show you," he stepped closer, his left hand coming up to pull down his collar, revealing even more tattoos. But then, as your eyes travelled downwards, just above where his shirt covered, they landed on a scar. A brand. HYDRA's brand. A thin, seared in scar given once a soldier would be undercover for longer than five years, an 'x' carved into the flesh.

 

A reminder.

 

Your eyes widened, looked up to meet his twinkling ones. "Heil HYDRA." He said, a smile spreading over his face. Karpov opened your cell door and shoved you into the darkness.

 

-

 

"Don't breathe a word of this —" you ducked under a heavy punch thrown at your face "—to anyone." Grabbing the arm that threw the punch you twisted it up and around you, flipping the owner of the arm over your shoulder, landing them heavily on the mats.

 

"The only person in this place I talk to is you." Came the answer, masked in a slight groan of pain.

 

"Good." You advanced one more, throwing a kick on one side and a clean right hook to the other, your hand was caught, you lost balance and felt your leg being kicked from under you. "Fuck," you wheezed, breathless as the blow knocked the air from your lungs.

 

Bucky had you pinned, right in the position you showed him the week before, one arm stretched over, locking down the other while the knees held their legs down. You struggled, not wanting to tap out just then, waiting for the right moment. You, being much smaller and more flexible than he, wrapped your leg around Bucky’s torso and pulled him down to the side, landed him on his shoulder, made a spot for you to scramble up quickly and grab ahold of Barnes' metal wrist, using all your strength to pin it down. You reached back to a hidden compartment sewn into the back of your shirt, pulled out a short blade and pressed it just under his ribs, covered by tactical material.

 

“Stab. Dead again.”

 

Bucky shook his head, annoyed and shifted himself uncomfortably under you. ”What did you want to tell me?”

 

You had gotten carried away with the sparring match you’d forgotten what was so important that Barnes should be aware of.

 

With a quick glance around the room, you checked if any guards were interested enough in their jobs to care that you and Barnes had ceased training for a moment. When no one seemed to notice, you leaned closer, your lips inches from his ear. “There is a sleeper agent of HYDRA. Here at this base.”

 

“So?” Bucky shoved you off of him, taking a chance to overpower you while you seemed distracted. That wasn’t like you, to seem on edge. He watched you climb to your feet, shaking your head, brows furrowed.

 

“HYDRA has infiltrated the programme we were sentenced to complete, the Winter Soldier programme. That means this was the plan all along.” You weren’t talking to Barnes then, your mind fogged over with disbelief. Karpov was HYDRA, now the head Official of one of the most secret organizations of select Assets and Assassins in history. HYDRA hadn’t wanted to let you go. They only wanted their competitors, the USSR, the entirety of the Russian Government, to believe that they had the upper hand in dealing with you and Barnes. Who knows, at this base, are there other soldiers, training in the Winter programme?

 

HYDRA was still very much alive. Underground, biding it’s time. And you were a part of it.

 

HYDRA still had you, entrapped in their claws.

 

Bucky lunged at you, but you easily ducked and tripped him, pinned him down once more, distracted.

 

“Damn,”

 

Looking down at him, you narrowed your eyes coldly. “You need to be on guard, don’t talk to the man called Karpov.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why? He is obviously here to track your progress, idiot.” You snapped, switching to an english form of insult for a change. Barnes glared at you. You ignored it and continued to speak in an undertone. “With HYDRA here, this mission can go sideways. This could mean war, in the long run.” Your seriousness seemed to settled a rigidness over the soldier, his jaw clenched, his expression telling you he was thinking.

 

“So what do we do?” He asked, blinking up at you through his long hair. You realized you still were atop of him, you body pressed tightly to his, pinning his metal wrist down to the mats, and climbed off him hurriedly.

 

You helped him up. “Simple,” you said, as plain as if you were to tell Barnes about the weather, “we stick together.”

 

-

 

Within in hours of agreeing to take on a task outside of training Barnes, you were on a jet flying to an unknown location, you finally had time and some piece and quiet to think about what should be done about the HYDRA agent sent to fuck around with you and your soldier.

 

When was he sent? Surely Panarin would go through some lengths to see to it that Karpov was one of their own. What had he done? Tortured an innocent person, maybe a lower down HYDRA mole? Was that HYDRA’s sick plan all along?

 

His whispered words remained scarred into your mind, ones you wished to never hear again.

 

Hail HYDRA.

 

You leaned back in your seat, eyes closing as one of the straps from the new full facial mask dug into your hair; instinctively, you raised a hand to fix the strap, but the tight cuffs with a chain linked to your magnetic ankle braces prevented any movement. With a clanging of chains you angrily jerked at them, wishing to break them into pieces. The ropes around your hands represented much more than typical restraint, it showed you were still a prisoner, submissive, and that was all you were to them, and all you could ever be. You pulled on them again, pulled on them hard enough to finally feel some form of pain.

 

They rattled against the hard cold seat you were in, causing a guard to glance over at you.

 

“Успокоиться [calm down].” The short guard stationed at the door to the cockpit snarled at you, small, beady eyes narrowed.

 

“Трахни тебя тоже [fuck you, too].” Came your sullen, nearly silent response, the frustration in your tone twisted by the vice over your mouth and throat. The guard pulled out his stunner, and threateningly so, set it on the seat beside him, inches away from his hand, were he could snatch it up and tase you at any moment you stepped out of line.

 

The jet flew for many hours, somewhere over an ocean. For when the sun came up, bleeding colour into the atmosphere, allowing some warmth to seep into your icy skin, you could just angle your head to look out the small window, catching white clouds misting over a blue and grey sea.

 

You were right. Barnes eyes did resemble the churning ocean. Unforgiving, ever so persistent, mesmerizingly statuesque. The ocean would drown you, slowly and painfully suck the breath from your lungs.

 

The way he looked at you, with that utter softened form of attraction and longing, you had that feeling.

 

Drowning. Ever so painfully slow.

 

Relaxing back into your seat, your mind wandered over to Sargent Barnes. The feeling of tipping over an icy edge seemed to entrap your consciousness. One that if you fell from, there was no crawling back up.

 

No more second chances.

 

-

 

Once landed and driven to a temporary safe house in an undisclosed location somewhere in whichever country across an ocean from Russia you were in, they (a Soviet General and ally from the country) set you up with a brief mission go over, explained your job and who would be there for backup.

 

They trusted you enough now they didn’t send along any form of of watcher or mission observation soldier. You were to go in alone, and come back with what they required.

 

They only gave your orders once, and nothing was repeated and forbidden to leave the room.

 

“Your temporary badge, I.D card, code: 1167B12K,” a Soviet General stuffed the thin cards into your hands as a female employee tucked your hair into a standard hairdo of the current 1940s fashion, a simple curled updo with thick strands twisted away from your face, giving a full and soft feminine look about you. It took her only ten minutes, her talented hands used to your individual hair type.

 

“Готовы соблюдать [ready to comply].” You answered, the numbers already memorized in your mind. You picked up your new set of clothes that sat upon a brown briefcase that would soon carry the subject you were to be retrieving. Mind focused on the job, your plan, if it should go askew.

 

As they prepped you, explained your tasks, the stylist had applied some makeup as well — something you only were permitted to wear during undercover missions, and something you absolutely adored wearing — simple foundation power to even out your smooth [skin colour] complexion, a peachy orange rouge was brushed lightly over your cheekbones and dusted over your nose, creating a healthy glow, and she even filled in the arch of your brows.

 

And lastly, once you exited the change room, your battle gear consisting of [skin colour] pantyhose, tight black skirt, a white and red floral blouse and sharp black jacket to match. Slim and figure forming, you radiated confidence.

 

Maybe it was the gun concealed under your jacket, or the slim blade tucked in the seam of your blouse sleeve.

 

“Лицом ко мне [face me],” the red haired, older Russian stylist snapped her fingers promptly. You turned, facing the older woman, your face expressionless, hiding emotion. She gently applied a blood red lipstick, glossing over your lips, accenting their shape. Once completed, you looked as though you were made new, a woman of style and high authority.

 

“Perfect.” The woman turned and picked up a pair of heals, red to match your blouse and lips. You slipped them on and picked up the brief case, finally ready to start the mission. You knew the basic layout of the plan, but were soon to get real instructions only minutes before you actually went to undergo the task.

 

With the details of your job mesmerized, they lead outside into the hazy heat of summer. The blue, cloudless sky hung over head, stretching far over the vast green landscape, your ears caught the rumble of cars speeding down a highway, a sound you were not used to. Birds and insects chirped, enjoying freedoms in their own tiny worlds.

 

A sleek blue ford pulled around from the safe house, a young man wearing a casual getup sat in the front seat, eyes staring straight ahead, as though he was instructed not to look at you.

 

“Where will I be going?” You ventured with a question, walking over the short grass, trying to not wobble in the heals. It had been a while since you’d been in such casual wear.

 

The general opened the back door for you to slide in, he handed you a new file that held more specific instructions. “Welcome to New York.” And he slammed the car door shut.

 

-

 

— New York, hidden SHEILD base • 1945

 

Your I.D card flashed as you tapped in, the woman at the counter nodded at you, meaning the identification read that you were indeed, a SHEILD agent or operative. The false name-tag you wore consisted of your birth given middle name, and a made up last name. It also held your number, and inside the number, when unscrambled, held another 4-digit code that got you down into the labs, far underneath the blooming city.

 

“Afternoon, nurse.” A man greeted you with a tip of his hat as he passed the desk, dressed in a proper suit and green tie, complete with a gun at his belt.

 

Eyes taking in his weapon, you offered a simple smile and nod in return as you walked passed, small briefcase in tow. A nurse, were you?

 

You glanced up at the walls, searching for a sign to lead you down the halls to the right elevator you wanted. The clocks seemed to mock you, the steady tick echoing between your ears. You had a specific amount of time and searching for the elevator wasn’t an option.

 

Finally, lift C was far down the right corridor of the base. Not one person who passed looked up from their paperwork, or even questioned your existence. Running a hand over your skirt, you turned and stepped into the open lift. The shifty feeling of being inside the enemy base returned, heightening your senses and sharpening every one of your thoughts. One mistake out in the field and it could evidently ruin a whole operation.

 

You breathed in the smell of freshness, the new lush carpet under your high healed feet felt alien, the warm yellow, natural light that filtered through real windows softened your exterior, made you seem more realistically human. But that would never distract you from the goal.

 

This was your one chance to prove to Director Panarin, hell, even Karpov that you deserved more than a barren cell, with a number for a name.

 

The ride down to the basement was long, but once the lift slowed to a stop, announcing the action with a shrill tap of a bell, you needed the I.D badge to permit an entrance onto the basement floor.

 

The space down under the city was wide, unevenly lit with hanging white bulbs, photos of famous soldiers and scientists lined the walls as you past, their eyes watching the intruder stalk through their base.

 

With your goal in mind, you made a stop at a warehouse closet to the left of the dark labs, opened the door and searched for a white lab coat to throw on over the black blazer you wore, a perfect cover to blend in amongst the sea of lab coats.

 

The details on the file returned to your mind.

 

Get inside undetected. Done.

 

Go down to the labs. Done.

 

You peeled out from the store closet and smoothly returned to the centre of the hall, hands clasped over the handle of the brief case. The labs were close, through a set or doors and down another short hall.

 

First checking to see if anyone was looking in your direction, your intelligent eyes scanned the two men working in the lab, bent over workbooks and data plans. They wouldn’t bother you, clearly very invested in their work. You caught a glimpse of a bin of used blood bags, most likely from a failed transfusion.

 

SHEILD wasn’t as clean as they told the world.

 

Slipping through a metal door, ignoring the ‘no entrance’ sign, you seemingly entered a whole new world. The long square room was cast in a dark blue light, long, panel lights lined the floor under your heals, creating a safe path for you to weave through the thin isles of glass containers.

 

Find the chem room. Done.

 

The chilling air smelt of chemicals and the rustic, tangy crimson blood. You couldn’t waste time, setting down the case you stalked further down, deeper between the cases upon cases of small glass tubes filled in different measurements of blood and other substances.

 

Picking through the containers your fingers finally landed upon the one you needed: filed under the number 19172K23Q. You’d memorized the numbers in the silent car ride.

 

Upon finding the correct subject, you snatched it up, turned towards the light and quickly read the name.

 

S. Rogers.

 

With a blank mind, you grasped the glass tube tightly in your sweaty palm and rushed back to the case, bending down next to it you clicked the lock expertly, inside was a special mold only made to old the exact tube of blood you held in your hand.

 

How the fuck did they have Captain America’s blood?

 

Why did the Red Room need the blood?

 

Not bothering to even begin to try and figure out what the hell was happening, you pressed the tube carefully into the mold, snapped the lid of the briefcase closed, locked it up once more and straightened up, fixing your skirt as you stood.

 

You were trained to detach from the missions. Not involve yourself in what needed to be done. That was dangerous, involvement. At that point in your life there was no plausible way you could invest in this mission. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t.

 

As you slipped out of the lab, your mind raced, the object you carried felt like a ticking bomb, packed in explosives, ready to destroy worlds and lives at the press of a button. You glanced at the time, you had 15 minutes to exit the SHEILD base and meet the return car outside the building. From there the car was hired to return you to a closed off part of an army base, where the American allies of the Soviets were waiting to send you back to Russia, along with the subject of your mission.

 

Jogging uncomfortably up the stairs with heels, you appeared nonchalant, bored and hurried to simple passerby’s. No one ever questioned you. A young girl on her way through the maze of business. Most men naturally assumed you were some timid assistant, and therefore only bothered you to ask for favours. “Fetch me a coffee, love,”, “bring me file 457 on your way, if you will”, “come look pretty for me while I do me paperwork, eh?”. The list went on, you ignored all contact.

 

13 minutes. You passed a room, records or something, but the name, at a passing glance, caught your abrupt attention. Paused, you read the name on the door. ‘Records: Missing Persons of War’. A lurching feeling swelled inside your chest, and a pulling and intoxicating idea gently whispered in your ear.

 

12 minutes. The door slammed open and in you were, digging through the records, eyes scanning through the names, desperately searching for the name you recognized, the name that belonged to a face you have seen before, in an past life, a dream, and your own twisted idea of reality after a mind melt.

 

Bander, Bandly, Brown, Burly, you searched through the pages of lost souls, ghosts of the past, the haunted faces of those who would never return home. There it was.

 

Barnes.

 

10 minutes. Your sharp eyes scanned over his photograph, his full name, age, birthday, details that didn’t matter. Heart thumping in your ears, blood boiling beneath your flesh, you read his description.

 

[Sargent James Barnes, reported missing in action by Steven Rogers: December, 8th 1943.

S. Barnes — Confirmed — Killed during mission. Body never recovered.]

 

You stared at the world ‘killed’. His squad, generals and family, if he had any, thought him dead, missing, body lost to an icy river. His memory frozen in the mud.

 

No one was looking for him.

 

A sick, hot and sticky stone dropped through your stomach, the immediate guilt that engulfed you seemed to block out all noise surrounding you.

 

8 minutes. And only as your read over the details of the accident, written by Captain America himself, you suddenly caught the sound of someone walking swiftly down the hallway. Your sharpened senses picked up their heartbeat, which hammered heavily.

 

7 minutes. You had to leave. The heels clicked down the hall, coming closer every second as you speedily stuffed Barnes’ file back into its order, where it would remain forever, and fumbled to return it to its spot in the perfectly organized desk drawer. You closed the drawer silently and pressed the lock shut, ignoring the small ‘click’ that seemed to echo around the small room.

 

Just as you straightened up from your position of bent over a filing desk, the glass door opened and a young woman entered. “Oh,” she smiled, surprised to see another human down in the old files room, “hello, love. You lost?”

 

Her warmness instantly relaxed your fight response and quickly intensified your sudden flight response. Persons that tended to be of the warmer, more kind sort were exactly the ones that held you up by talking and chatting over every single thing under the sun. You had to get out of there. Now.

 

6 minutes.

 

“No, actually. Just sent to return some notes.” You returned her warm smile.

 

“Down in missing persons? Odd.” She brushed a lock of dark brown curls from her paled, nearly freaked face. You noticed her nails and lips matched yours in a ruby red stain.

 

“Indeed.” Picking up the brief case you began walking toward the door, eager to leave and hop on the next jet. The woman stepped to the side to allow you to pass, not questioning the brief case — which was very reassuring; they hadn’t discovered the missing vile — her wondering amber eyes following you.

 

“I’m sorry — have we met?” The gorgeous woman questioned, forcing you to pause, one hand on the door knob.

 

Shrugging you half opened the door. “I’m new, I suppose. First week just started Monday.” Relying on that useful lie, you offered a smile again.

 

“I.D number?”

 

“1167B12K.”

 

That was a valid number, meaning she had no obligation to question anything. “Oh, congratulations.” The woman then seemed to realize you were in some kind of rush, her eyes flicked from your hand on the door to the one clasped over the case’s handle. “Well, best of luck to you,” she smiled, giving a sign you were free to continue on your way.

 

You didn’t answer, turning you swiftly left the room, now your own heels clicked as you walked down the well lit halls, a happy sort of swagger coming back to you. With the serum nearly successfully taken back to Russia, the Soviets would finally trust you, treat you as one of their own once again. And your plan with Barnes would finally be set into motion.

 

Mission complete.

 

-

 

Inside the dark file room, the woman was frozen in her position at the door, surrounded by papers and the dreadful feeling that something was very wrong. Walking to check the file drawer you were in, she came upon the section A — B. The drawer held more than 200 files, there was no way she could figure which one you’d been searching through.

 

She suddenly startled as her walkie-talkie crackled, and a man’s voice spoke up. “Carter, any luck?”

 

SHEILD operative and agent Peggy Carter watched the new, young girl walk away, pause to peek around a hallway, and then turn a corner to ride up the lift. She sighed, biting her red lip she pulled her walkie from her suit pocket. “No, keep searching,” her accented voice smoothly filled the room. “We’ll find whoever took that serum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! there will be much more bucky in the next chapter xx leave a comment with you’re thoughts or tap the heart feedback is very much appreciated! ily


	11. Bonded by breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: thank you SO much for all the kudos, i absolutely adore each person who reads my story <3 also this chapter got me in my feels :’) why do i do this

—

 

— Germany, hidden HYDRA base • August, 1945 

 

“This is going very well,” General Lennon smiled into his short glass of celebratory whiskey, basking in the satisfaction of successfully laying down the base of the operation that had been planned, ever so carefully, for years. Since the birth of HYDRA.

 

“Will it work?” Hugo Venn asked. He had been moved up in rank at your departure, as he has always been one step behind you. His sharp eyes scanned the files and papers that splayed over the round table, glinting menacingly as they landed on a photograph of you. A black and white candid shot of you in training, a gun slung over a strong shoulder, hair loose over your masked face.

 

“I have faith, of course.” Lennon said.

 

“With our assets planted within the Soviet Union, HYDRA may rest. Underground, we wait.” Arnim Zola proudly stated to the room of HYDRA officials, SHIELD agents and posing Soviets.

 

He had just been appointed to work for SHEILD, across the sea in America. He would run HYDRA from within the worlds most secret protective agencies.

 

Everything went according to plans. With the bitter, horrific war at its end, The Red Skull defeated, that menace, pitiful excuse of a hero, Captain America killed in action, never to bother with HYDRA again, they could take over the world.

 

And they had you, unknowingly planted within the Russian military, to grow and spread the poison of HYDRA, you would be their bomb.

 

But that would be later, after Zola’s own time had come. New technology had been arising every day, he knew he wouldn’t vanish all together. There would still be some fraction of him left, but before that, he had a mission.

 

Take over SHIELD.

 

 

— Russia, Red Room Academy • 1945

 

Three days.

 

You were gone three days, almost four if he was crazy enough to count the hours, it wasn’t that bad, yet. Bucky alone in the once shared cell, silently going insane, the white walls shrinking in around him, cutting off oxygen, suffocating all life. He had been taken, every day, by silent, stony faced escorts to the same gym where he normally trained with you, and then was trained and forced to spar with a few of the highly combat trained guards. Breaking his bones, splitting lips and going in for so long he felt his muscles strain until they snapped under pressure. The guards never spoke in english, he recognized some curses in Russian and did his best to understand what they were saying. 

 

It wasn’t enough.

 

He refused to understand, to learn the language of his captors, refused to submit. He would be stubborn until the untimely bitter end.

 

By the end of those days, lungs on the brink of collapse, his body battered with scrapes, blue and black bruises and his fighting spirit injured and huddled in a corner somewhere, nearly abandoning him. He wished, in the quiet moments, that you were there. You were not good at comfort, but in the small moments only your steady presence was enough to reassure Bucky that he would not fully crumble into the mess the Red Room was waiting on.

 

God, where was she?

 

Had she done something wrong, got sent away? He didn’t know what he would do, how he could survive, alone in the world of the wicked.

 

His muscles burned as he sat on the hard bed, on the third day of your quiet absence, flesh hand clasped with metal, comfortably still, waiting.

 

The buzzer hadn’t gone off. No one had come to lead him through the dark halls, or even open the door for that matter. The unknown nearly killed him, Bucky hated not knowing what was going to happen. Living a life not knowing what breath could be the last had morphed into a poisonous fear, steadily drilled into his mind, that he should be on edge, battle ready, at every second of the day.

 

No matter what.

 

-

 

Much later, Bucky was lead down a dark hall, through a set of tall wooden doors and, once a password unlocked another set, he found himself in an open lab. Wide and echoing, darkened in the corners, where monsters whispered, in contrast it was lit brightly in the centre by blinding white lights.

 

A circular set up of desks and tables swarmed with doctors. One straightened up, realized the subject was there and waiting, ready, and beckoned him closer.

 

Bucky, gut twisting with anxiety, heart hammering inside his chest, walked a tilted, battle worn stride into the white room, heavy boots creating a steady thump on the marble flooring, the twisting colours of black and white making him dizzy. All eyes of the humans working on machinery turned to him, peering into his soul, piecing together his mind — or simply viewing their own masterpiece of a broken soldier.

 

The asset.

 

His concerned blue eyes quickly scanned the room, picking out faces he recognized. Director Panarin, positively giddy with excitement at the sight of Barnes; Karpov, the secret HYDRA agent, staring ahead, he stood in front of a figure, but Bucky couldn’t see their face. Then next to them stood a small cluster of nurses in white, a few tall doctors bent over the tall machine, a cream coloured curtain half draped over the side.

 

Soldiers lined the walls, machine guns on their arms, cradled gently like children, ready to murder anyone who made a wrong move.

 

The figure behind Karpov stepped around his wide frame. A black shadow, in the form of you. Dressed in simple pants, boots and black tank top, your body seemed so small compared to Karpov’s muscle mass, you were slight and agile. Bucky knew you were stronger than you looked.

 

Bucky’s shoulder relaxed, he’d been holding his breath. You were safe. Not murdered or sent to another prison. You’re safe.

 

“Bring the asset forward, please.” A doctor beckoned with a gloved hand, eyes focussed on dials and knobs, clicking away at keys on a device. “We are ready to prep,”

 

Two hands grasped his forearms, both metal and flesh, not afraid to hurt him. He instinctively struggled, and received a twist of his arm. At the same moment, another scuffle broke in the crowd, Bucky shook the hair from in front of his eyes, peered around the guards body to see you as well, being taken by two heavyset guards.

 

You growled a swear, you head whipped around to glare daggers at Panarin, who was watching you and Barnes, the model soldiers, struggle with a sick form of glee.

 

“What is this?” You hissed angrily, bending under the force of the men’s hands, contouring your arms until your wrists crossed behind your back. The cold metal was wound tightly around your wrists, terminating any form of attack against them.

 

“It seems, солдат [soldat] that you are of further need to us.” Panarin smiled, her hand gesturing to Barnes and the Doctors.

 

Your mind raced. “Что за хрень [what the fuck],” keeping a low tone, you swore, eyes wide and searching the faces of the doctors, searching for another HYDRA agent. Was this a part of the plan as well?

 

The voice of General Lennon drifted into your mind, ‘This is where you sit right and shut the fuck up. Nothing good happens to a soldier who talks back.’

 

But you were exceptionally aggrieved.

 

Successfully infiltrating a SHEILD base, stealing a valuable substance without detection and returning it safely to the Red Room hadn’t, in the end, allowed them to trust you? They still only saw you as HYDRA’s little killer, soft and used? Bullshit.

 

Angrily, you put up a fight as they wrestled you into a mind chair, the cuffs came off, and new ones held you arms and hands down to the arms of the cold metallic chair, they strapped you in tightly, before hand, when planning the transition, a heavy straight-jacket was put into suggestion by a nervous guard, but that was waved off.

 

They needed you to be as least constricted as possible.

 

“What are you doing to me?” Your starlike eyes seemed to spill over with anxiety, something no one in the base had seen in them before. The mask tightened around your mouth, forcing your tone to come out raspy and robotic-like. You jerked in the chair as a man inserted a needle (containing a relaxation serum) into your arm. The fluid entered your bloodstream and instantly you felt afloat, not a care in the world, voices that would alarm you were only a pleasant background noise. Your eyes burned, became heavy weights. There was nothing to do but drop into sleep. 

 

“Stop-” Bucky finally found his voice. Instantly, a heavy fist slammed into his ribs, causing a dull eruption of pain to bloom within his chest, making a breath or two rattle in his lungs.

 

“Silence.”

 

Bucky was slowly realizing, as the bright lights blinked in and out, the pain making it difficult to think, he’d begun to piece together that something was very, very wrong. 

 

They had said, weeks ago, he was going to be out through one more examination, the last chapter in the book of torture, or so he thought. His mind was such a mess of late he couldn’t trust what he recalled; faces, voices and conversations were lost to him forever. But, from what he had gone through, and the stories you, the Killer, had explained during the dark hours you spent together, bonding over pain, was that it wouldn’t be as bad.

 

Not nearly as traumatic as anything he’d previously been through.

 

But he could barely remember half of it. It all meshed together, stuck hanging by thin threads the Red Room threatened with sharp snares every time he dared speak up, step out of line or look at one the wrong way.

 

As the nurse busied herself checking your vitals, she waited a moment before attaching you, with a single clear tube, she had heard sometimes the Killer only pretended to go under, attack the medics working on her and attempt to escape. The poor girl fumbled with her hands, gently hooking you up to a machine by clear tubes and red wires, inserting them into your skin and twitching away when you breathed a little heavier than the last time, the mask vibrating over your face. 

 

Bucky watched your eyelids flutter, turning your brow from peaceful and smooth to a small grimace of pain. 

 

He was momentarily distracted. “What’s she doing to her?” 

 

Karpov, standing next to the Doctor, chuckled, “Why, do you care for the Killer? Anxious for her well being?”

 

He refused to answer, unsure of what he would say if he wanted to say what he thought. All of what HYDRA had been telling him resurfaced to his conscious mind, whispers of trust, you can trust her, trust us, too. Bucky wanted to believe that, all that she had done for him, as little as sitting in the dark with him must have made some kind of difference. You are safe, with your Generals. With her.

 

Could be trust a face he’d never seen?

 

Fuck, his head was starting to pound, a steady hammer pinging around on his forehead, sending pulses of pain down his neck and back. 

 

Behind him, a man wheeled in a new machine, one they had copied from pictures and stolen plans taken by the Killer back in Germany, copies provided by Karpov. It had taken them the better half of six months, all their best scientists and lab technicians, working all hours of the day and night, straining to re-create what had once taken their leader down during the war.

 

With the help of your mind, from what you had recalled sneaking around the rebel base in Italy, they pieced together the very machine that once created the greatest soldier to have ever fought: Captain America.

 

The greatest state would never be struck down again.

 

With a colourful mix of a handful of scientists, generals, doctors and Soviet officials, a rough draft of the Super Soldier Serum tested on Barnes before his escape with Steven Rogers back in ‘43, one last instalment of the perfected serum thanks to samples of your blood, Bucky Barnes would be ready, a new model ready to be presented to the officials, a super soldier.

 

Bucky watched a tall window open with a grinding rumble, revealing a vast viewing room. He vaguely recognized a General Lennon and Professor Arnim Zola of HYDRA, both watching with sick appreciation. Hugo Venn was there as well, his dark eyes focused on you, never moving. His hand twitched when a doctor checked your pulse.

 

“Wait -“ Bucky swallowed, his arms tensing under the the thick black straps. His mind seemed to snap, a vivid memory lurched back into his brain, whipping him into déjà vu with no warning.

 

“They put me in this — God I guess it was a machine, like a casket. All black, very constricting,” an old friends voice drifted into Bucky’s mind, revealing a retelling of the experience. God, what is his name? “You’re right, I did get taller. No, yeah, no it actually hurt a lot, Buck. You don’t want this.”

 

Steve. He remembered Steve telling him, that night — after his rescue.

 

“Felt like my body was on fire. I got so strong, I haven’t found any limits yet.”

 

How could he have forgotten?

 

“No!” Bucky thrashed in the straps, the metal arm threatening to break from the bonds at any second, the nurse that helped you became too frightened, and hurriedly left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. “Wh-“ as Bucky started at the noise, the Doctor gently inserted a calming injection through his bloodstream. Not one that could knock him out as the did to you, but one that simply kept him calm, obedient.

 

“What if this goes wrong?” Bucky found himself begging once more, eyes wide and scared. “What if it kills me?”

 

“So chatty today, sargent.” The doctor said, looking down at the needle inserted in Bucky’s flesh arm, which has slackened immediately due to the relaxation injection.

 

“And her?” Bucky found himself so desperately exhausted, all he could picture was a soft warm bed, topped with pillows and heavy quilts. “Wh-what about her?” He has to stay awake, to see what they were about to do to you.

 

No one answered.

 

The tall man in a white coat was gently adding drips of blood into an already deep red serum, exactly seven drops into seven small glass vials. Steven Rogers super enhanced blood reacted with the chemicals, creating a positive incline of numbers on the black computer screen. “Clear.” He said, nodding to the nervous nurse who stood beside you, still hooked up to the tubes answer wires, which lead to a small vial to contain whatever they were about to extract.

 

“You may begin the transfusion, nurse.” He said, swirling the vial in the florescent lights. He had been working on the serum for years, trying and failing on so many test subjects, his body count of persons killed in his lab was horrific, yet every day he continued. He experimented on children, young women and young men, but time was running out. As the war was began to be at the edge of the finishing line, the prisoners of war would be set free, rescued or disposed of. He needed the serum to work, or countless lives would have been wasted. 

 

The nurse moved around your quiet form and began typing a code into the computer, then her slim hands reached over and clicked a button, allowing the tubes and wires to come alive and begin the extraction.

 

“Wait—” Bucky was so warm, relaxed, ready to drop off into sleep, but his mind stayed awake, alert and filled with panic. “You can’t... Steve said...” He didn’t want it to hurt, he was already in so much pain, all he wanted was the torture to stop.

 

Everything weighed him down, pulling at his will to live, to fight, to be better. God, it just hurt so bad. Bucky had never been that exhausted, not since his first time in HYDRA’s captivity, where he survived, so many others had died at the hands of the Nazis, HYDRA agents — and he survived only to wind up back in the lab, an experiment.

 

He watched through the blurred lines of his lashes. Steady drops of crimson blood began to slide down the tubes and into the glass vial. Your breathing slowed, moving you into a deeper subconscious, unaware of the non-consensual removal of your blood. Panic swelled in a large bubble, on the verge of exploding inside Bucky’s racing mind. What were they doing to you?

 

“We should add more sedative, his blood level is rising profusely.” The doctor said and turned to Panarin, he nodded, a sign she could begin her speech as they continued to operate on Barnes.

 

As they mixed yours and Steve’s blood into the enhancement serum with steady hands and barely a lift in breath, Panarin found a mic and began speaking, her tone smooth and collected, not showcasing her excitement. 

 

“Good afternoon, viewers.” She smiled up to the crowded viewing room. “Today is August, 10th, 1945. A wonderful day to make history, yes?” A murmur if agreement sifted through the small crowd. “I shall go over what we are doing before we get to the real show. Now,” she walked, her white high heeled shoes clicking over the marble, over to you, unconscious and peaceful.

 

“HYDRA may have perfected a serum on her,” Panarin stated loudly, setting a hand on your bare shoulder with a glimpse up to the viewing room where the HYDRA men watched coldly. “She has undergone multiple surgeries and operations to mirror the American soldier, Steven Rogers; it destroyed her, ruined her mind but made her body strong, agile, un-killable. She could be the next Captain America, but we don’t want that, do we? When Doctor Zola had The Winter Soldier in possession, he experimented that same operation they used on her, it failed, but not all the way, hence the survival of the fall in 1943 which leads us back to Germany, where they collaborated with us on a new training operation.”

 

Bucky was nearly asleep, Panarin’s words not registering in his mind, he would never remember them. All that he felt was the small, hot pin-pricks of needles, slowly injecting his body with the new serum. Quietly poisoning him.

 

“When we came to Barnes, he was strong, stronger that we have ever imagined. But this, with the help of our scientists and Doctors doing their very best, have perfected the enhancement.” Panarin said to the crowd, her eyes looking directly at Barnes, who stared, heavy lidded, at the floor, frozen in a haze of confusion and hurt. With the serum finally injected to completion, needles removed, Bucky’s body had gone into shock, his mind numb.

 

Then, a new creation was wheeled in, crafted from metal, equipped with shockwaves and electronic pulses, fit to stretch its metallic arms around the subject and with it’s white lights pinned down upon them, it would lower around their face, clamp it’s talon-like hands, inches from their skin. 

 

The M.S.M — memory suppressor machine. 

 

“You were all welcomed here, at the edge of war, to see how easily nations can come together, and create something that could destroy it in seconds.” Panarin said to the eager crowd. 

 

Bucky was helped up, his body slack in the guards arms, they shoved him into the chair of the M.S.M, he didn’t put up a fight. His tense shoulders were shoved back, and instantly both his arms were held down by metal straps. His breathing picked up once more, chest heaving as the hands lowered down. The doctor came forwards and forced Bucky to bite down on a small, thick strip of leather, to avoid a jaw or tooth rupture during the process. Bucky was too weak to fight back, he was in so much pain.

 

“This, my dear friends, is the making of the Winter Soldier.”

 

And then the screaming started.

 

-

 

His muscles had come alive, twisting and churning they desperately wanted to break free from his skin. The blood inside him, thick and heavy, giving what was left of his energy a sluggish pull to it. He lay, breathing through convulsions and muscular spasms, on a bed in a new, single cell. His neck strained as his back arched painfully, his body mixing with the serum, only not in a friendly way.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpered, hands curling into fists so hard he thought his wrist would break. His clothes stuck to his skin, glistening with sweat, it was so hot, yet freezing if he attempted to remove his shirt.

 

His eyes, red rimmed, blinked back hot tears that formed. His heartbeat skipped ten beats per second, feeling as though it would burst through his chest. Bucky wouldn’t object, he wanted to die. His breaths came in huge, rattling wheezes, mixed in a form of rasping swear words and pleading.

 

It wasn’t supposed to hurt that badly. It was killing him, he was sure of it.

 

Illusions filled his head, he had started to see things. Thick, tar like liquid, black as night, seemed to be filling the cell, threatening to drown him, it seeped under the door, through the cracks in the walls and finally, over the edge of his bed. It morphed into crackles of white lights, slashing his vision every time he blinked.

 

Bucky suddenly lifted his head to look down at his palms, afraid they would turn black and break into dust, when they didn’t, and he realized he had been imagining it, he relaxed back into the sticky bed, a soft sob escaping his lips. “Fucking christ,” he swore, straining back into the bed, wishing it would open up and swallow him, send him deep into a darkness where no one could ever find him.

 

Then his door opened. 

 

Momentarily blinded, he squinted as a yellow strip of light flooded across the floor, his bed and the wall. A short figure slipped through the door and allowed it to slam behind them. He couldn’t be imagining things, could he?

 

He uttered a mix of words, past names that came to him, but the names had no faces. God, he wished you were there, you would know what to say, even if it was nothing. 

 

“Soldier?” Your voice cut through the dark, alerting Bucky — he hadn’t imagined you. He sat up, a soft groan leaving his lips. Your form blurred in and out.

 

You looked at him, eyes already adjusted to the darkness. His dark hair clung to his face, his ocean like eyes had been burned, red rimmed, threatening to bleed. His body giving off waves of pain.

 

“I n-need to —” 

 

“No, don’t get up, ” you moved to stop him, rest a hand on his metal shoulder, push him back on the bed. But he had already stood to his full, enhanced height, towering over you. But towers collapse. He stumbled, breaking under the pressure, with your hands splayed over his arms, you helped him sink heavily to the floor, dropping what you carried under your arm.

 

“You never listen.” You sat down on the cold floor beside the broken soldier, who seemed confused at how you’d gotten so close. Yours and his legs touched, and your hand still held his flesh shoulder, his skin hot and clammy. He was close enough that you could count his eyelashes, map his sprinkle of freckles, chart the pain in his eyes.

 

“M’head hurts,” the soldier said.

 

“I know.”

 

“Everything just fucking hurts.”

 

You had strict orders upon entering Barnes’ cell. But there were no cameras inside that particular confinement room. What you were ordered to do could not be recorded.

 

And that meant you could break some rules.

 

With a shaking hand, you gently removed your glove, and as if you had no control over your actions anymore, your hand grazed over Barnes’ face, gently pushing some of his hair from his eyes. He flinched at the movement. Then the palm of your hand rested over his cheekbone, fingertips making contact with his warm skin. His breathing picked up, eyes open and seeing more clearly.

 

“Все хорошо [everything is okay].” You whispered, hating and ignoring the feeling that you are disobeying a direct order. No contact outside of training. Your thoughts battled inside your head, nearly ripping apart your brain, pulling and pushing, creating a blinding headache.

 

“Please, I -” Bucky without realizing, had been leaning into your touch. He desperately wished he could just lay down, free of pain. “Could you...please, just make it stop?” His gravely, cracked tone hit your ears and travelled down into your heart, digging a grave, cutting into the ice-box that held what could be left of your humanity.

 

“Что ты хочешь чтобы я сделал? [what do you want me to do?]”

 

“Anything.” He answered, his voice thick in his throat. Kill me. Save me. “Just —”

 

You suddenly, without thought or warning, pulled him close, hugging him to your body, one arm tucked securely under his metal arm, and the other pulled his head to rest against the soft leather jacket covering your shoulder. You cradled him, holding together what the doctors and nurses had left behind. Raw affection hung thick in the air, in place of softer emotions. Forbidden emotions.

 

Bucky broke down, his shattered pieces crumpled further, breaking off at each breath he took, like ice crashing into the water, pushing against the rest of the freezing current. He couldn't breathe, drowning, suffocating.

 

He held you, bleeding into your form, fingers digging into the material of your jacket, wanting to sob, like a child scared of a thunderstorm. He felt your hand, soft for once, brush through his hair, then run down over his straining, angry muscles. The soft hand that had once unwrapped his wound, the hand that had killed so many, could fire and reload a gun faster than he could blink, wrap his hand wound, the soft hand that gave him five seconds of comfort that he hadn’t had since before the war. 

 

Your fingers played with his shirt, thumbing the soft threat, feeling the stitches, wishing you could sew a new life. He shifted, slowly, unsurely, returned the embrace, relaxing into you. The action sent a shiver through your body, the heavy feeling of warmth and human closeness was nearly overwhelming. The action of touch, unordered and purely because you wanted to, needed to. 

 

You were out of your body, something had to be controlling your actions, this wasn’t you. It could never, ever be you, to dispose of orders and sneak into a cell to whisper assurances then gently embrace the soldier that was supposed to be in pain, the one you were ordered to break.

 

Why did it hurt, seeing him broken?

 

End him. Break him. Use him.

 

You. Can’t.

 

“Soldier.” His head was tucked under your masked chin, the metal arm had slid around your shoulder while the other rested by your waist, your legs were spread awkwardly to allow him to be so close. He was so close, pressed against you, soaking in your comfort, touch, Bucky could hear your heartbeat, hear the shaking inhales and forced calming exhales. “Can you hear me?” You whispered in english. Hands clenched in his shirt, grasping onto something real.

 

He suddenly realized you had spoken. He immediately apologized, and began to push himself away from your body, suddenly afraid, empty. He slowly, unwillingly pulled away from your closeness, avoiding the look in your eyes, a child caught doing a bad thing. “I’m sorry.” He said.

 

You kept him still, regretting the actions before they had even happened. A sickening guilt formed in the pit of your stomach. Emotions, bent and twisting. Behind you lay the item you dropped earlier, the one that contained your orders. Your hand went back to grab it, but Bucky saw you.

 

“What is that?” He questioned, voice low and tired.

 

“Nothing.” You shoved the red book away, it didn’t matter you had the words memorized a long time ago. You felt the need to be sick, a heavy panic swelled up, begging you to not continue at your job.

 

You had never, ever disobeyed an order given from an official. This is why you’re the perfect soldier, you always followed orders, without question. Maybe that made you an awful one.

 

That time you had questions. You shouldn’t be the one to do this, be the start of a revolution, one that could shape a century. If you refused, they would hurt you, torture you, punish you.

 

I tried to stop them, you wanted to say, but it would be more lies. “You need to listen to me.” Don’t do it. Disobey and you die. You can’t. Bucky watched you, internally killing every independent thought that formed, begging you to go against what you had been raised to do.

 

Eyes closed, torn between what you had to do, with what you wanted not not do. You spoke. “желание [longing].”

 

You shouldn’t do this. “ржавые [rusted].”

 

“рассвет [daybreak].” The orders had won, conquered the battles within yourself one more time, the victory flag went up.

 

Bucky’s metal arm moved on its own accord, the plates shifting. “What’s happening?” His hands shook, in mirror to his breathing. A new form or panic arose, like a unwanted visitor. His flesh hand moved, like he wished to touch you again, you flinched away, mouth forming the trigger words, hot like poison on your tongue.

 

You couldn’t bare to see what you were doing to him. “семнадцать [seventeen].”

 

“грузовой вагон [freight car].”

 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word count: 5055
> 
> thank u for reading! drop a comment if you like it, love it or absolutely fucking love it ;) updates may be late, i’m working lots these next weeks.


	12. The girl in the mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of this chapter jumps around a bit. sorry about that! also ty for all the love on the last chapter x and holy shit thank you for all the kudos and comments!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> —
> 
> warning: kinda gory wound? derogatory name is used. hints at slight obsession? is that a warning?

— Russia, Red Room Academy • September, 1945 / WWII has at last, come to an end.

 

With the trigger words nearly fully implanted, scarred, seared, into The Winter Soldiers whirlwind of a mind, the plans had finally locked in place. The chess board set, clean and crisp, its warriors sent to the front lines, stone-like and eager.

 

The players: HYDRA and Soviet Russia, staring down at the subjects. The puppet strings were attached, ready and free to use.

 

The subjects: the Убийца [killer], born into crime, built to murder; and the Winter Soldier, melted down and made new. A machine. At the Academy’s beck and call.

 

The Winter Soldier, new name, new man. Shiny and fresh, maximized. The last few memory wipes, biting down upon leather as his past was skinned away he came back different, a new crust had been tightly packed over what was left of his soul, his entity, it became a mess of confusion, silence and a shit ton of anger, pure rage that lay, subdued, within.

 

Training soon became exhausting.

 

The way he collided with the other huge men while in the combat cages startled you, the way he adapted so easily to that arm — that power, the strength and utter brute intensity that it provided — easily made him feared amongst the Russian combat agents. They were named the Fights, and the men, some who had trained specifically for the use of combat practice, had begun to refuse to work with the soldat.

 

The Winter Soldier was a subject, a whisper, one that not anyone would dare fuck around with, one that only few would attempt to converse with, order around, piss off.

 

Except you.

 

-

 

Trapped. Caught in a dilemma is what you were, frozen. You were unsure if he’d forgiven you for speaking the beginning, the dawn of the words. You had set the words in stone, unbreakable. It was the start of a new origin story. One that would change the world.

 

When you left the cell, that night, the cold traces of his grip on your arm, the words heavy in your heart, you wished to take them back.

 

You held feelings of enmity towards the words. What they did to him. What they did to you. How had such a thing affected you? The orders Karpov gave you sunk deep, lodged themselves inside you, held you down.

 

Confrontation, a frightening word, an even more frightening action, was a thing you avoided. Unless completely necessary. But in Barnes’ case, perhaps you could come up with something.

 

It had been days since the night in the cell. A sick thought formed, maybe he had forgotten, it had been erased? You knew deep down that wasn’t true. The Academy wanted him to feel that pain, that wedge of reality speaking to him, telling him you were still indeed one of the bad guys.

 

You, with a brand new key, one that allowed freedom around the Academy, made your way down to the cage room, a particular mission in mind. You knew he, some guards with guns at the ready and Corporal Karpov would be down there.

 

And that they were. No one objected to you entering the white cage room, no one even looked at you.

 

Perhaps confrontation is a good thing.

 

“Soldier, a word.” You allowed the door the slam shut, you pushed past Corporal Karpov, who stood, ordered to oversee a fighting match, his form unmoving and silent. No words could penetrate the concentration between the soldier and the Fight, both equally were emerged in battle, landing hits and heavy blows, metallic grinds and shifts of the arm filed the room, masking the soft groans of pain, the crunch of bone, drips of blood. “Soldier!” You reached to unlock the cage, gloved fingers playing with the key code.

 

Was Barnes ignoring you?

 

A hand wrapped around your wrist, unafraid to squeeze a mark into your skin. Karpov stopped you, anger in his eyes. “Stand back,” he warned. “You are not permitted here.”

 

Ripping your wrist from his grip, you stepped back, your eyes flicked over to Barnes, who had stopped the fight, watching you and Karpov, face wiped clean of expression. “I am here to work,” you told the Corporal. “It’s my job—”

 

“That position is filled,” Karpov said, a tone that said carefree, but between the spaces told you it was another warning, concealed in his small smile, in his darkening his green eyes. “Return to your cell, Убийца [killer].” 

 

Bright red anger stuffed it’s way inside your head, revved like an engine. “No,” you couldn’t possibly tell Karpov you wished to speak with the Winter Soldier, to not ask forgiveness, to calm the altercation that clouded your conscience.

 

You were selfish, that is what you were. 

 

You didn’t care what Barnes thought of you, why would you? Asking, or to beg, for forgiveness would indicate a form of emotions of which you were not allowed to retain, to keep for yourself. The world you worked in taught you that you only depend on yourself. That selfishness and aloneness meant security. 

 

Could anger and selfishness replace the sickening guilt?

 

“Get out of my way,” you stepped up again, a shoulder coming up to shove Karpov away. You demurred to be afraid of that man. “This is my mission.”

 

“Oh?” Karpov sneered, his rough voice only added fuel to your anger. “They did not tell you?”

 

“Tell me what.” You growled.

 

Karpov merely smiled.

 

Still in the cage, one hand up to alert the Fight that he wanted a short break, Bucky listened, watched. His body frozen, unmovable at the sight of you. It had been a while. Since that night. Listen to me, you said, your hands on his skin. Bucky hadn’t answered.

 

Then you said the words that began a twisting spiral, of darkness, blackouts and confusion. He wasn’t sure what to feel upon setting his eyes on you. Pay attention to what I’m saying, she whispered. Her voice like honey, soaking his senses. Whispers of assurances. Your touch, burning him, saving him.

 

He listened, unmoving, to Karpov arguing with you. Some of the Russian slipped through his limited understanding, but he caught the message.

 

“You’re not permitted to be working with the asset at this time.” Karpov said, his wide shoulders shrugging, hands lifting as if to say ‘who knew?’.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

He swooped down, his lips at your ear, breath splashing over your neck. A steady grip on your arm told you not to move. “Bullshit? I’ll tell you the truth,” he whispered, in case Barnes was listening. “The Winter Soldier doesn’t wish to see you, he requested to work with me.”

 

The anger exploded. You shoved off of Karpov and stalked, not turning back, from the room, emotion heavy with your strides. The door slammed shut, echoing around the cages, rattling the chains. Karpov watched you storm away with a smirk, cruelty in his eyes. He didn’t mind working with you, in some ways he respected you, then in others he became jealous. You were sent in to take his place, outshine him, the fucking bitch you were. He took pleasure in seeing you angry, and will wait, patiently for a mistake to find it’s way to you.

 

Karpov arraigned his posture, brushed his hands together, as if to rid them of your touch. “Back to work, Soldier.” 

 

Bucky wasn’t listening, he leaned his metal arm to the heavy, cold chains that lined the cage, swaying along with them, his body cast in black, a stark contrast to the white background of the vast cage room. “What was she doing here?” He asked, voice raspy, unused.

 

“Not that it is of your concern,” Karpov looked up at Bucky. “The Убийца [Killer] arrived down here to inform me she has refused to work with you until further notice.”

 

“Why?”

 

Karpov shrugged, hiding his smugness. “She did not say. Now, continue.” And the fighting resumed, now fuelled by fresh, bitter frustrations.

 

-

 

— New York, HYDRA infiltrated SHEILD base • 1945

 

Hugo Venn requested an immediate transfer to the Russian base as soon as he landed back in New York at the HYDRA headquarters, fresh from watching the creation of the Winter Soldier. His excuse, he wanted to continue being a soldier, not locked up in some office, undercover in SHEILD filing fucking papers.

 

“That is where all our agents are going.” Doctor Zola had frowned, reading over the transfer papers lightly before glancing up at the man before him.

 

Hugo nearly took up all the light in the room, his body a mass of muscle and black clothing, his gloved hands clenched, strong jaw set tightly. “Not all the agents.”

 

“Corporal Karpov, you mean?”

 

“No,” his voice caught in his throat, mind clouded with thoughts of you, how you didn’t see him before the transfusion back in the Red Room. “Her.”

 

Zola said your real name in surprise, your birth name. A mistake.

 

He cleared his throat, shuffled some papers, clearly uncomfortable he allowed such intimate information pass onto a simple soldier. “Excuse me,” he shook his head, but the damage was done. “You mean the Killer?”

 

Hugo hid a sly smirk, his darkened eyes alive, fiery. “Yes.”

 

“Well, she is a special case, her mission is vital to the survival of HYDRA in the future.” Zola had said, blinking through his thick glasses at Hugo, who shifted on his feet, tattooed hands sunk in his pockets. An air of relaxation, inside he was furious.

 

“Sir, I’m requesting a transfer only to aid them during the mission.”

 

“I see,” Zola folded the file papers, an action that told Hugo he would consider the subject, but it was likely that he would not allow it. “Why not our bases in London? France? Toronto? Canada is catching up with the world, we need a strong HYDRA infiltration; you would be a nice addition to the armies there, soldier.”

 

Hugo kept his cool, something he had been working on. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. How could he say that his only motivation to transfer would be to become more close to you? He hadn’t seen you since your own relocation, and before that he was only involved with you in aid of tricking Barnes. He wished he talked to you more, the longer you’d been away from HYDRA, the more he thought after you, longed to see you. 

 

He only wished you thought the same, returned his feelings. You never did. Always invested in your work, studies and missions. Never enough time to stop and talk with him. You told him you hated him once, and the time he first met Barnes, you punched him, straight in the jaw — already protective of your little metal soldier toy.

 

“With respect sir, I would rather be placed in Russia — at the Academy.”

 

Dr. Zola watched the young man sternly. He’d always been stubborn, cruel and selfish. What did he want with you? He had seen the way Hugo was watching you in the lab, body tense and eyes clouded. In some ways, it concerned, and interested him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” 

 

-

 

— Red Room Academy

 

“Soldat,” Panarin said, sliding down into a chair opposite you, an approving glint in her eyes as you nodded your masked head, a sign of respect. “I have something — jesus can someone get the mask off her? It’s so distracting.” She shook her head lightly and tutted, a weathered hand settled over her heart, like the sight of poor you was too much for her.

 

You glowered as the mask was removed by two guards, hands rough and tugging. You allowed it, knowing if you shoved a guard under Panarin’s watch there would be punishment. Utter bullshit that was, she just watched you calmly. They handed the black contraption to you, it took all you had not to chuck it at Panarin’s sickly sweet smiling face once you snatched the wretched item back.

 

“Now, I have a little ... mission for you. I know you’ve just recovered,” she mustered a smile, tight lipped and unapologetic. “But I would like to you take a new agent out, a simple task, recover some old files and whatnot.”

 

She lied. There was no simple task.

 

Absolutely confused, you remained silent, your face expressionless, a clean slate. Your mind pulling you between two orders, one from HYDRA, forcing you to remember General Lennon’s orders to refuse any outside missions. Now Panarin, suggesting just that, her kind smile and poisonous words, slick and sly, a snake; charming you to obey, follow her command.

 

“Of course, you have the option to decline.” She offered and handed you a thin file — containing mission details — and folded her hands primly. “HYDRA insisted you only work with Subject Barnes, but your work is excellent.”

 

She obviously hadn’t got the news. Barnes refuses to see you? What else have you got to do, train with the Fights? Spend your time in the lab, stabbed by needles and studied? “Yes, m’am.”

 

You would obey. Like a good soldier.

 

“Oh, wonderful.” Panarin smiled. “You leave in two days, follow our escorts here down to be prepped.”

 

Your heart caught in your throat, hands instinctively began to tremble, forcing you to curl them into tight fists. “Prep?”

 

Panarin acted as though she hadn’t heard your voice, which had cracked upon speaking, your body seizing up. No. You refused. You would not be activated — that would mean a trip down to the M.S.M, strapped down, electroshock; you could feel it biting your fingertips, forcing your heart-rate up, skinning the memories away, second by second. Shredding your sanity. No.

 

“Go along now.”

 

-

 

“You’re the Winter Soldier, yes?” A gruff, accented voice hit Bucky’s ears as he hung up a heavy punching bag (his metal arm lifting the 100lbs bag without a problem). He sighed, in no mood to deal with another Fight or agent of the Red Room coming to talk to him, timidly ask him about his arm and shrink away, guilty, when Bucky ignored them.

 

“My name is Bucky.” He turned, hands fiddling with the long black boxing wraps. He looked up at the man that spoke, who matched him in height and muscle build — though that was those were the only common characteristic. Hugo Venn had dark eyes, a strong, sharp face and seemingly hundreds of black tattoos sketched into his pale skin, amid his scars, his thin lip curved into a smirk as Bucky spoke. “What do you want?”

 

“You still go by your home name?” Hugo asked, one elbow coming up to lean himself on the wall near the punching bags. He had finally been transferred to the Red Room, his first stop? The Winter Soldier. He had to see what the man had turned into, so far, he was impressed. The metal arm, the dark looks. He was exactly the way Dr Zola back at HYDRA envisioned. And definitely what you should not be spending time with.

 

“Why the hell do you care?” Bucky asked, giving Hugo a look. He immediately did not trust the man before him, and just wished he could go on his way, not bothered by fucking idiots.

 

“Eh,” Hugo shrugged, inwardly searching for a way to bring up the subject he wished to talk about. “I don’t know if you recall —“

 

“You’re HYDRA.”

 

Surprised, Hugo smiled. Caught up already, was he? He scowled thinking it was you spilling all the plans to Barnes; he doubted it was Karpov that revealed himself. “Yes, I’ve only just been transferred.”

 

Bucky didn’t answer, he looked down at his wraps, focusing on making the metal hand close properly, bend the right fingers and not accidentally tear the fabric. He’d been working hard on controlling the arm, willing himself to not pull a door from its hinges, or shatter a blade handle, instead he focused on making the weapon as gentle as possible. It frustrated him endlessly.

 

“Who told you about the HYDRA agents, Soldier?” Venn asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Bucky glanced up, scanning the room. That man was HYDRA, shouldn’t he be able to trust him? If anything, he could rely on a HYDRA agent if things ever went south with the Soviets. His mind told him that the Soviets were good, that they saved him. But deep down he knew it was HYDRA.

 

HYDRA had saved him.

 

Years later, he would one day realized that all his thinking was crafted and moulded to fit him into the mindset of a machine. The brainwashing and vicious memory suppressors had done a magnificent job, cleaned him, purged of all humanity.

 

“No one,” he lied.

 

“Was it the Убийца [killer]?”

 

“Fuck off,” Bucky said, regretting he ever spoke. “Why do care?”

 

Diversion. There it was, a trick; a ruse. Sargent Barnes practically handed the information over to Hugo. “You know, you can tell me. I worked with the Убийца [killer] for many years.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky said, no interest evident in his tone. He finished wrapping and moved past Hugo, to fetch some new gloves. But Hugo stopped him, a large hand on the metal arm.

 

“She ever talk about me? About us, our work together?”

 

“Not once.” Bucky jerked his arm away and kept moving, now searching for a guard or someone, hell, even Karpov to get that idiot away from him. He knew how things worked in the Academy, if he so much as hit Hugo it would mean a week in solitary, or maybe a trip down to the electroshock chamber.

 

“I’ll give you a little tip. Don’t trust that, that whore —” Hugo spat, suddenly harsh, his words emitting venom. “All she does is ruin what you love, no remorse. Nothing.”

 

“Sounds like that’s your problem.”

 

“Y’know, we could have had everything. But she shut me out, I knew her. I would say I was the only one closest to her.” A fiery glint arose in Hugos eyes as he lied to the Winter Soldier. He’d heard that the Academy wanted some separation between you and Barnes — and that is all he wanted to do, simply take his place. “You still have your home name, but I imagine you’ve never heard her birth name.”

 

“She said she can’t remember.” Bucky picked up his gloves, mind racing. The man was right, he didn’t know anything about you, why should he trust anything you say?

 

Hugo laughed. “Thats what she told you?” He shook his head, smiling. Then he said your name, your full birth name; one only four people on the planet knew. Your mother and father, Arnim Zola and you.

 

And then the knowledge of your name was up to six people. Hugo Venn waited for Bucky’s reaction, his steely eyes fixated upon the soldier. “What else can you tell me?”

 

And so the blade of separation was driven deeper, twisted and stuck.

 

 

-

 

 

The new cell that the Winter Soldier was confined too after memory wipes and intense fights were kept of cameras or recording devices, sheltered from the threat of evidence of The Winter Soldiers existence. For him to remain a ghost, hidden from the world, the Academy was forbidden to record any kind of evidence that he existed inside the room.

 

Kept in semi-darkness and no comfort, Bucky slowly felt as though he was slipping away, trapped in the small cell, mindless and in constant pain. The metal arm after training sent stabs of pain throughout his back, riling up a splitting headache. At times he couldn’t eat, so they dragged him into the medical wing to hook him up with tubes and wires, ensuring their perfect soldier stayed fit, never broken down, a well oiled machine.

 

His mind drifted over to you once and a while, how angry you were. His thoughts on you had changed, he was unsure, the little trust he had was nearly vanished. Could it have been some form for power trip? You entering his cell that night, whispering soft words, gently holding him then the reaching for the book. The red book, a silver star etched on the cover.

 

And those words. They meshed together, a blended painting; abstract torture. He didn’t want to think about them. What they made him do.

 

Why did he wish to see you again? Talk to you?

 

Seeing you was some kind of magic; a safety spell, enchanting. Only your favourite act was to disappear.

 

Bucky last saw you a little over a week ago, or maybe it was only a few days. He hadn’t been sleeping much. His mind had become a jumbled mix of The words, Karpov’s voice and a Hugo Venns whispers; rumours of you, your name and story.

 

He inspected his metal hand, holding it up, flexing the fingers, admiring the delicate works of metal — one that you helped design.

 

With his thoughts clouded with you, it was as though he wished it, for then, his cell door opened, casting a beam of light to pan over the cold floor, a beacon of hope that maybe, just maybe, it would be you to see him.

 

Buck sighed, expecting a guard or even Karpov to enter, stern faced and ready to force Bucky to train until he was spent and exhausted. But no, a slim dark figure slipped inside the darkness, making no sound.

 

“Barnes?” You said, quickly closing the door behind you, careful to not make a noise, guards had been posted outside the hall towards his cell almost all day and night. 

 

The air hung thick with indescribable emotion, wonder, animosity, displacement. Something was wrong, the friction fizzled like broken magnets, as hard as you tried to break the tension it wouldn’t ever connect properly.

 

Bucky stood up, shoulders square, hands nervously curling and uncurling from fists. “What do you want?” Contempt. Bitterness.

 

You sighed, opened your mouth to speak but wincing as the mask vibrated over your jaw. “I just want to talk.”

 

“Never thought I would hear you say that. Last I heard you refused to see me.” Bucky crossed his arm, standing tilted to the left, leaning into the weight of his metal appendage.

 

Realization overtook you. Of course. It made perfect sense, just as you had been close with Barnes, his beacon of trust, comfort even, The Red Room forced you to say the words, tear out the first stitch from the thin web that was his mental state. They wanted Barnes to believe you were against him.

 

And, in turn, they wanted you to believe he held you with animosity, anger. “I never refused to work with you, I was looking for you, that day by the cages. Fucking Karpov —“ 

 

“Why should I believe you?”

 

“I’ve never lied to you.” You said softly, hating yourself more than ever, as every word you said was a lie. Of course you’ve lied to him, nearly every second word you utter is masked, twisted from the truth, a bitter form of protection.

 

You were wearing down the wall he’d spent the week building, breaking it off, piece by piece with soft words, gentle looks and a soothing tone. He hated it. He was pulled two ways, a multidimensional world in which he believed you, that Karpov had tricked you both into avoiding each other, then in the back of his mind, there you were, a painted monster, bloody lies dripping from your hands and lips, drowning out reality.

 

“Then where were you?” Broken words, ones he didn’t mean to say. God, he couldn’t think straight. He had missed you.

 

“A mission.”

 

Hugo’s words echoed, ‘all she says is a lie, don’t trust her, ever’. Bucky stared at you, blue eyes fixated on you, how the gentle moonlight from the one window filtered over your mask, blending blackness with your skin, eating up the human side of you. Is that all you were, a monster in the dark?

 

He once said your eyes were like stars, then he realized that stars only came out when darkness came to play.

 

You watched him, unable to tell if you stood five or a thousand feet apart. “The mission lasted longer than I thought.”

 

“I thought you didn’t do that any more.”

 

“I never said that.”

 

Bucky found it was easier to be angry, to hate what he saw before him rather than face what he wanted to say. “Bullshit.”

 

“Watch it,” you warned, eyes turning cold. You raised a hand, signalling to pause, wait, to not get angry. It could all be a misunderstanding. Everything was so wrong. “Soldier—“

 

“My name is Bucky.” His tone set low, floating through the darkened air of the cell. His name was all he had to himself, a last hint of his past, a shadow of the ghost.

 

The room spun, walls were closing around you. No. You can’t deal with the guilt. “Bucky,”

 

His voice was so quiet, on the edge of a whisper, bent with emotion. You stepped closer to hear him. “Thought you were done, that you hated killing for these scumbags.”

 

“I do what I need to survive. It’s all I know.” Honesty, bare and laid out before you. Your feelings were pushing up, threatening to burst. “Can’t you understand?” Pleading, trembling lips and fingertips.

 

Bucky ran a hand though his long dark hair. “I also need to survive. And the only way is with your help. Which is what you said you’d do back in Germany.” He can remember that much, same story, different setting; whispers between cell bars, emotions real enough to touch.

 

“I never said anything.” White anger burned away the guilt. You reverted back into your defensive self, the girl that was taught to never give up, fight for yourself.

 

“Stop. Lying.”

 

You nearly screamed, suddenly taking a step closer, invading his space, you flared up at the soldier. “I am not lying! I need to explain-“

 

“Why you don’t want to help me get home? If there even is a home?” Bucky grasped desperately at straws, he couldn’t remember home. That foreign word has become a white hot blade that twisted his insides, a constant reminder that he was gone, lost to his home, his life, family.

 

“Why must you be so damn focused on going home? No one is missing you.” You snapped, spewing words without thought.

 

Silence. An icy silence, like fog drifting through thick woods. “What?” Bucky was hollow, a sickening feeling became the only fuel within him, urging him to listen, to know.

 

Your hands shook. “I looked you up. In the bases missing persons, while I was in New York.” Your voice quiet, eyes downcast, focused on your boots. “You’re dead, Barnes. Body never recovered.”

 

Suddenly he couldn’t talk, his throat became constructed, and a burning feeling welled up behind his eyes, threatening to crash over, release all the bottled emotions. He was dead. To the world, his body was somewhere, frozen and decaying in a river. Perhaps there had been searches, rescuers combing the riverbed, breaking the ice as it has broken his bones, shattered his life. Body never recovered. Somewhere a grave stood, maybe back home, next to his parents graves, empty of a body, a soul, a soldier. They had nothing to bury, no soul of James Barnes to talk too, whisper words and cry quietly beside.

 

Steve. His fellow soldiers, his family, laid an empty grave. 

 

“You didn’t think to report that shit, huh?” Bucky choked on a gasp, riddled with pain, tugging at his heart. “Tell them I’m here,” his voice trembled, “being tortured?”

 

A fresh wave of quilt, blackened and frozen washed over you. “I couldn’t. I had orders,”

 

The Winter Soldier laughed, almost cruelly. “You still care what they think, you’re no better than anyone here.” He spat through the darkness. “You’re no one without them. A fucking mask that ruins everything.”

 

The last sentence slapped you across the face, and you could only just catch the tears before they escaped, hot and watery. It was silent, the words hung in the air, the noose tied, strung; left to rot.

 

“I do, Barnes.” You inhaled shakily, gloved hands trembling. “I ruin everything.” Your voice rose, manipulated through the mask, though not hiding the angry trembles, growing stronger, steadier. “Would you like to know what else I ruined? I took that mission, and I lost an agent. Trapped in the fucking crossfire and died, bled out in front of me. I did that.” You jabbed a finger into your hard protective chest piece. “Because I ruin everything! Poor Убийца [killer] sent doing the worlds dirty work because that’s all I am worth: others blood.” Your words were rushed, mixed with english and russian.

 

“I didn’t —“

 

“The mission wasn’t a week. It wasn’t longer than I expected. They took me, after I let that agent die, they took me and tortured me, gave me a reminder.” You ripped your glove off and pulled your bulletproof vest down, unbuckling the thick straps until you revealed a thin long sleeved black shirt. Along with that, you pulled up your sleeve to show Barnes your scarred forearm. “This’ll show me never to let anyone on my side die again.” You said, voice shaking with anger. 

 

Bucky had to look away, just as he had to when shown how his shoulder looked after the first surgery. Angry flesh, burned, bleeding and scarred. They had branded a number, searing hot into your skin, burning a reminder of the agent you lost. The [skin colour] skin on your arm was rubbed raw, not nearly healed. Yet you had walked as though you hadn’t ever been hurt in your entire life. The strength you held seemed to vanish as you exposed yourself, burning in fresh shame, grief and guilt. The worlds weight was tied by chains to your shoulders, it was only minutes before you should snap under the pressure.

 

Bucky stepped towards you, timid, as you had once been approaching him in the tilted darkness of a cold prison. His flesh hand reached, as if to touch you, fingertips to your scar, wishing to heal you, stitch you back together, gather the shattered pieces that lay on the ground, nearly buried forever.

 

You had never spoken of those things before, but was a dam, the water became your story, violent and rushed. There was no stopping it.

 

You flinched, hard, jerked your arm away. Away from his touch, his warmth.

 

“This is why I do what I do.” You pulled your sleeve back down, hiding the pain once more. “They’ll kill me otherwise. And I’m - I’m scared, I’m always so frightened of what they’ll do to me, or to you or-“

 

Bucky’s softened ocean eyes traveled to your own, holding you in his gaze, unable to form the words.

 

“I have been trying to protect you, the first thing I think about every day is you and I don’t know why.” You revealed, avoiding the soldiers intense ire. And yet, HYDRA and the Red Room kept that barrier, that black and constructing material, hiding your face from view, the only way you were recognized, the masked girl. The Убийца [killer]. It had to be some sick form of oppression, some violent fantasy that the men in charge of you had, to see such a young girl broken, mindless, robotic, condemned to live a killers life. Trapped behind bars until she’s useful. Then forced to use her body to lure other men, the competition, to their beds which is in turn their deaths.

 

You were a lost girl, painted to be a masterpiece, the paint would be red, bloody. You imagined a violent fantasy, criminal; seductive to the minds of men. And Barnes was almost there, he didn’t trust you, all he saw was a killer, violent and soaked in innocents blood.

 

Just a masked soldier, were you?

 

Bucky had moved closer to you, so close you could practically touch him, if you wished. His hand, scarred but whole, came up to gently cradle your head, his large hand splayed over the knobs and contours of the mask. “I take it back. All of it.” His voice thick in his throat, caught with sorrow.

 

You pushed his hand away, brushing it from your face. “Too late, Barnes.”

 

A mask. An enemy. The bad guy. A split second plan formed. They wanted you to obey, to bend under their control. You’d always been a tough case. What were they doing to do, kill you? No, you were there perfect little doll dressed in a soldiers uniform. 

 

Your hands came up to the wrappings of the mask, fingers feeling over the gears and wiring. Bucky stepped back anxiously. You swore as you ripped the backing of the mask came free, the small electric wires shocking your fingertips.

 

Finally, you tore it from your face. With a heavy slam you shoved it onto the ground, letting the black mask smash into pieces. The cell was silent, on edge, waiting for a moment for something to go wrong.

 

Bucky waited, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering.

 

Your head was hung, fingers dripping crimson, breath shaking, a leaf in the bitter wind. Slowly, you looked up at him, red rimmed eyes staring right into his face. You stepped into the light, your final act of defiance, barring your face to the Winter Soldier.

 

Its her.

 

Bucky all of a sudden felt wind whipping in his ears, the sound of a crowded bar filled his head, a burning feeling of alcohol, then the sudden scratchiness of his crisp new USA army uniform covered his skin like a disease. You. A hidden, dormant memory fought its way up to register in Barnes’ mind, as much as he wished it wouldn’t.

 

You. He’d seen you before.

 

A dazzling smile, ruby red lips, whispering naughty things in his ear. That english accent. That face, the one Barnes was sure he fell in love with that nigh. That night so many months ago.

 

She was standing right there, cloaked in battle gear and scars in the place of a black dress and heals. Bruised lips in the place of lipstick. 

 

The girl in the mask.

 

“Oh my god,”

 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words: 5,819
> 
> :,) this chapter has been planned since the beginning, though it still didn’t turn out how i wanted. ahh well, i’ve done my best! thank you for reading, see you next update!


	13. activated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very sorry for the lateness!! it’s been a hectic few weeks, i’ve been looking for a new job and a bunch of family related things happened! i’ll try to get back in the groove asap.

—

 **warning** : once again, 16+, combat violence, swearing, nsfw flashbacks! we’re starting off with a bang lol

_— flashbacks are in italics —_

 

—

 

**_— Brooklyn, New York • 1942_ **

 

_Her lips against his neck, hands on his skin, pushing his shirt back, pulling him closer, sweetheart touches dipped in honey._

 

_The way she spoke, breathless and soft, purring, a sleek feline, magnificent, an entrapment. Her hands in his hair, surprising him with a tug, angling him to better accommodate her lips. So soft._

 

_Please, she said. Eyes heavily lidded and ablaze._

 

_He felt that intensity, that fire, white hot embers that threatened to go out if he didn’t do something to stoke the flame. Sparks settled around the air, filling the tiny apartment with warmth._

 

_The air was aglow as they connected, burningly soft touches and movements. Her hand entangled in his hair, the other carving thin red marks into his back, a messy sketch work of passion. He kissed her slowly, then all at once, fearful that if he stopped he would wake from the beautiful dream._

 

_She tasted like coffee — who drinks coffee at that time of night? Hopeless romantics? Her parted lips begged him for more, whispers in his ears, that delicate praise. Bucky felt that familiar tug in his chest, a smothering feeling, urges of ardor, dangling in front of him, seductive; teasing him._

 

_Don’t stop, her voice melted like chocolate. His hand cupped her jaw softly, lips intent on bruising. The warmth around him squeezed, her body pressed to his, her softness — closer, closer, closer. Don’t stop, please don’t stop._

 

_Begging through a craving tone, swirled with sighs of bliss nearly tipped him over the edge. Slowed down, he breathed in deeply, lips against her neck, a hand on her chest._

 

_I need you, he said, breathless. Doll, I want you so bad._

 

_You got me, I’m right here, she whispered. Her words echoed around the room, the lights blinked in and out, time froze, watched the lovers in their moment._

 

Then it all stopped.

 

The clocks were ticking. The air follicles around him began to move. Bucky Barnes was back inside a freezing cold cell, darkened and damp in the corners, the only light came from a window he couldn’t see from. In front of him was a girl from his memories, one that had haunted him, that was standing in front of him right then.

 

All at once the word zoomed back into focus.

 

“Oh my fucking god,” Bucky’s quiet, stunned words had morphed into a soft laugh, riddled with amazement. 

 

You.

 

The girl in from the bar, from New York.

 

The world spun, a tornado of twisted emotions ruled the earth, spinning it on its side, letting oceans drain and stars fall to the ground. Is that how things were? just so backwards that they could be a new form of normal.

 

Everything was so wrong.

 

You, now backed into the shadows, felt sick. His reaction to your reveal wasn’t on your short list of expectations, in all honesty, you hadn’t figured he would react at all. Regret seeped through your skin, blocking the air. You wished to scramble and pick the pieces up, mould the mask back together, sew it to your skin. You just disobeyed a direct order.

 

“I-I fucked up,” you held your shaking hands, fingertips sore and dripping blood from breaking the metal from your face. “If you breathe a word, Barnes, I’ll —“

 

Before an empty, bitter threat spilled from your bitten lips, Barnes looked at you, his eyes warm, mouth forming a word, it hovered over the edge, threatening to jump.

 

He murmured a name.

 

“What?”

 

Bucky’s throat felt constricted, the word was slowly, delicately suffocating him, wound around his neck like a noose. “It’s you,” he swallowed the pain, said your name. Louder that time, you heard him, his shy, deep voice.

 

“How do you know that name?” You shuttered, voice cracking like dry concrete, rough in your throat.

 

The last time you heard that name, your birth name, was years ago. A sickening memory flashed in front of your eyes. Your father, stoic and strong, staring ahead as you, maybe five years old, crying and begged your papa, your protector, to stop the bad men from taking you. The dragged you down a dark hall in a HYDRA base, ignored your high pitched screams of fear, broken by sobs. Suddenly you had felt your fathers arms rip you away from the soldiers, order them to stand back. 

 

You cried into his lab coat, tears soaking his shoulder. “Lass sie mich nicht nehmen, Papa,” [don’t let them take me, father.] You remembered crying, your little hands squeezed around his strong shoulders. Your father sighed, said something to the soldiers, who had begun to lead your father down to the labs. He stoked your shaking head, smoothed your wild hair.

 

“Es ist in ordnung, liebling,” your father said as he set your small frame down into a cold metal chair. His hands buckled you down, like a car ride, only tighter and around your arms. Why did he do that? [It is alright, dear]

 

Little you sniffled, afraid as the white lights shined into your eyes, as more strange bad men in white surrounded you. “Papa?”

 

Your fathers face had been wiped clean of emotion. Your mother had just died, left him in the world with a baby girl. A beautiful little daughter, who reminded him so much of his lost love. A commander had suggested to raise you in HYDRA, such a new human could be useful to their studies. He watched you, squirming in the too large seat, a chubby hand coming to rub a teary eye.

 

Your father told you it would be alright. That he loved you. He said your name, softly. The last time you would hear that name.

 

Until now.

 

“How the hell do you know that name?” You stammered, forcing your tone to project with harshness, cold and angry, bullets and concrete.

 

“I —” Bucky struggled to form the words, the shock still threatening to blow over and kill him. He looked at you, war torn and beautiful, waiting for him to speak. God, the angles and planes of your face seemed to build a masterpiece; the beauty of you stole the little light there was. “I know you,”

 

“Fuck this.” You turned, picked up the backing and front of the mask, smeared with blood and dripping with regret. Anger swam through your system, drowned all other thoughts. You felt as though your  hands would burst as you yanked the cell door open and stepped through, leaving your soldier in the darkness.

 

Bucky flinched as the door slammed loudly.

 

Alone, once again.

 

-

 

Bucky felt weak, lost of energy, he sank back into the cold, barren cell bed, uttered a soft groan as his sore muscles stretched with stabs of pain, reminding him he was still in healing mode, in progress.

 

His metal hand rested, propped against his knee while the flesh hand ran though his long hair, rubbed the back of his neck. Your words echoed through his mind, taunting and cruel; it was a mistake, she said. Fuck it, she said.

 

Did she have no idea who she was? To him?

 

“Jesus,” he murmured to himself, his hand rubbed his temples, where a headache started to form. He replayed every moment in the history that he had access to in the ripped up files of his memory, searching through the blurred lines of his life, or what little that there ever was.

 

HYDRA had saved him. You, the Killer, had saved him.

 

And before all that happened, he had stumbled into your life, tipsy on whiskey and dreaming of war, leaned on that dirty bar counter, eyes alit with wonder as the charming girl bumped into him. That beautiful girl, in the black, or was it red? dress and a killer smile.

 

Now he knew you really were killer, a form blended into the shadows, cunning and cruel. Soft, perhaps, on the inside.

 

He looked down at his metal hand, how the plates and minuscule metal bonds woven together, crafted by your hands. The ones that murdered, that held him up, that touched him so gently. You, the girl that crept into his darkened cell, sullen and cold. He wished you talked to him more, maybe he could have figured it out sooner.

 

She was so lost, so torn between orders, trapped in a tangled web, caught between what she wants and what she knows. But how could he judge?

 

He needed to get to you, find you, somehow and explain, fine the words and piece them together, form a coherent retelling, explain the plot twists, how the lies and deceit had changed them both for the worse, or better? He didn’t know. Had HYDRA planned for them to meet previously? How would they have known who he was?

 

That didn’t matter, did it? They rescued him, showed him the way. He would always be HYDRA.

 

HYDRA meant staying with you.

 

-

 

The look on his face was burned into your mind, tattooed on your skull. He recognized you, remembered your face. You had caught a short glimpse in the locker room mirror before going out to train, your sullen expression looked, to you, like any other agent. You didn’t care about looks, though you new men found you, your body type, your features, attractive, alluring.

 

It was your weapon.

 

Maybe that is why you hadn’t taken off the mask until then. You refuse to allow Barnes to see your weapon, the root of your abilities. HYDRA and the Red Room has taught you that your beauty could be melted down and formed anew, a poison, a bomb, blades used to slit throats.

 

You boxed, slim hands wrapped in black cloth, covering your split knuckles. You hit the heavy sandbag, ducked under an imaginary hit thrown by a foe, you stepped back, prepared and expertly threw a side kick, landing defensively you grasped the bag with your left hand and jabbed your right elbow across the bag, delivering a strike that could break a man’s jaw.

 

The bag swung, chains emitting a squeaky groan. You leaned against it, stopping the motion with your strong body. Where, where had you seen Barnes, and in turn, where did he see you?

 

You set your jaw, brows furrowed, angry at everything in the world. The bag swung with another hit, the alive feeling in your arms returned as you exercised, blocking out your regret, smoothing whiteout paint over the walls of your mistakes. Why were you so stupid? Take off your mask, just to prove a point.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Curses filled the empty gym, followed by loud blows to the bag, each hit your mind recalled his words.

 

Your name.

 

He said it. Your own name, the one that was hidden from record, scratched away along with your childhood, innocence and freedom. Soon you became lost in the action, bruising your hands and breaking the sandbag, the chains coming loose, rattling threateningly.

 

You moved faster, your strength picked up; your anger and confusion morphed into speed, hypersensitivity to the sand beneath the tough leather. You needed to break it, feel it come alert under your hands, break something, anything that wouldn’t bleed.

 

Then it all stopped. A heavy hand slammed into the side of the bag, stopped it dead, mid swing.

 

Karpov. He stepped around the bag, expression blank. Two guards followed, eyes dark, watching your every move.

 

“What do you want.” You stepped back, began fiddling with the wraps, unwinding them from your hands, sticky with fresh crimson born of overuse, the wounds on knuckles never really heal.

 

“Your mask, where is it?”

 

“Broke. I removed it.”

 

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes searched for a lie; you had no tell. No one would ever be able to deduce any lie you spoke. “Interesting.” He nodded to the guards who stepped forwards, stood on either sides, tall pillars towering over you, heavy and concrete, ready to take you down.

 

You looked between the guards, unfazed,  then flicked your gaze to Karpov. “What’s this?”

 

“Don’t ask questions.” A gruff voice growled in your ear, breath hot against your neck, a large hand curled over your bicep.

 

The guard that spoke, a shorter, stout man received a blow to the ribs, sending him stumbling to the ground, wheezing and holding his chest. You cracked your knuckles, eyes steely, glaring at Karpov in front of you.

 

You were not in the mood.

 

Instantly two more men in black appeared, gripped your arms, pressed the cold nuzzle of a gun to the back of your neck, the threat of death spreading goosebumps over your skin. You became excited, smiling a little as the guards shuffled nervously.

 

They were told you were dangerous. And one that smiled at the action of a deadly weapon pressed to their neck was definitely, most likely, on the danger spectrum.

 

“I do not suggest doing that again.” Karpov warned,  almost friendly. He wore all black, his cropped hair slicked back under an army cap.

 

You straightened up. “What do you want?”

 

“Shall we take a walk?” Karpov spoke, hands clasped behind his broad back as his body turned, an offer to follow alongside him, a stroll through the Red Room. “I have something to discuss.”

 

You turned and smacked the end of the gun away from your body, shocking the guards. Without a word, you followed, not without shoulder checking the guard that spoke on your way past him.

 

Out in the brightly lit halls, lined with artwork and windows giving a few of the back gardens and landscape, your boots echoed alongside Colonial Karpov’s lighter shoes. The sun and moon, polar opposites but still in the same sky. Karpov was one you should trust, being from HYDRA, tunnelled into an undercover operation, he would be in the same boat as you.

 

He turned, glanced at you. Your jaw was tight, brows drawn; signs of thinking, something that angered you. Now, lies you had no tell, but anger was your accent emotion, a blotch of red staining the canvas of bottled emotions. “Something has risen to our attention.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“You, Убийца [killer], and the Winter Soldier.”

 

A thick, heavy weight dropped through your stomach at the mention of Barnes. You held no guilt, you were not in the wrong. Then why such an aching feeling?

 

“Ever since that night, when you spoke the words, he has become unstable.” Karpov seemed oblivious to your air of discomfort. “The subject shows signs of rebellion, he rejected our trainer this morning, acted out violently.”

 

The previous trainer had gone up against the soldat himself, feeling up to the task. He had not taken into account the fresh brutality the soldier held. They clashed, muscle to muscle, bone to bone, the arm was a powerful weapon, and he has mastered the use perfectly.

 

They spoke the words as he trained, drilling them into his mind. A chant, steady, followed by silent drumbeats in the air, it fuelled the Winter Soldier.

 

Karpov said the last word, then ordered the Soldat to back off, stand down. But with a simple twist of the metal weapon the trainer slammed to Bucky’s feet, neck snapped and nose dripping blood. It took a while to sedate the soldat, who held no remorse, another guard was nearly killed in the process.

 

“What do you want me to do about it?”

 

Karpov rounded a corner, turned to glance back at you. With one hand he moved to open a tall door. “I want you to put him in his place.”

 

The door opened, white lights, metal machinery, the sick smell of bleach, cleanliness, trace so of torture, echoes of screams. The lab, filled with white coated doctors and red clad nurses, silent drones, made to follow orders, expressionless.

 

That is where you would be activated.

 

“Вы не делали это некоторое время, да?” [You have not done this for a while, yes?] Karpov lead you further into the lab, past vials of serum, boxes of needles, weapon design, maps, and charts of progress.

 

You shrugged, “Не имеет значения.” [Doesn't matter] Though your skin became sticky, perspiration created a small sheen over your skin. Your hands trembled.

 

Karpov watched his fellow agent sink into a mind chair, relax into the metal. His unremitting cold expression stayed, unbent by your robotic movements. With the mask off he found you to be more realistic, human. You were a girl, perhaps twenty to twenty two years old, a young beauty, raw and unattached.

 

The straps claimed their places over your skin, clamped down, stopping you from an escape. Karpov’s back was turned, the thick threats of muscles in his back moved under his shirt as he pulled two objects from a thick, black case.

 

A new mask, and a black book, thin, with a silver Soviet star etched in silver on the front. The new mask was black, more moulded to the shape of your face, it would cover your jaw, mouth and nose, with ridges peaked up to sit just under your eyes. A pair of goggles would be provided, creating a full facial covering during missions.

 

The mask had a twin. They perfected two muzzle like contraptions, one for you and the other would be gifted to the Winter Soldier.

 

“What do you think?” Karpov held up the mask to show you, his long fingers twiddled with a small switch, and the mask manually compressed with a soft hiss, as though it clamped onto ones face. “A new design,”

 

You refused to answer, eyes narrowed, drawn to the black booklet under Karpov’s arm. The silver star flashed under the light. It was another match, for the book that you received that night with Barnes, red in binding, had the exact same mark; a bright silver Soviet star etched in the cover. You had opened it, read the trigger words from within the creamy pages.

 

They made one just for you.

 

You suddenly thrashed in the chair, arm muscles bulging under the tight restraints, nearly bursting under pressure. Your boots slammed onto the ground, kicked at air. “Let me go.”

 

Karpov smiled. “Are you afraid?”

 

You stopped, chest heaving with effort. “Are you?”

 

In and instant the buckles snapped, released you from the bounds, you had broken free, tumbled from the chair, up in an instant you were met with Karpov, stunner in hand. He had not expected your escape, the bonds were not enough to hold you, a super soldier. They said you were strong, but he thought they only said those things to frighten him. Then he was angry, he took two huge steps forward, ducked under your tight swing and delivered a shot right to your ribs, you buckled, stepped back, quickly switched feet and swung your left leg out in a roundhouse kick to his side, landed it defensively and shoved him away, the full force of your ability sent Karpov nearly across the lab. 

 

Karpov tried to catch himself, but fell off balance, crashed into a medical table holding tiny tools that clattered loudly. He gritted his teeth, a swear filled the air harshly, almost masked by his stunner coming alive with electronic pulses.

 

Adrenaline raced through your veins. Not sure what was after your escape, for you hadn’t planned on actually breaking out of the mind chair, you waited for Karpov to return to his full height, stunner rolling under his hand.

 

“One more move and I’ll radio Panarin.” He warned. His brown hair hung over his cold green eyes, keeping his appearance more deranged.

 

“Do it.” You circled him slowly, a lioness, watching its prey, careful and deadly.

 

Suddenly a loud, blaring alarm filled your head, the lights turned red, basking the lab in a rosy, fiery glow. Karpov vanished. You whipped around, hands reached out to grasp the black book, destroy it, keep it? Read it then rip it to pieces, the harmful works never spoken.

 

Through the darkness an agent crept, a needle in hand. Skillfully he stepped over the mess of medical tools scattered over the floor and lunged forwards. 

 

The black mass of muscle cloaked around you, an arm pressed tightly to your throat, the other inserting a thin needle into your bare arm, right over your bicep. Instantly the relaxation device flooded through your body, you dropped, dead weight, into the nameless agents arms.

 

Karpov was seething as the lights returned to their brightness, he supported a bruised jaw, bleeding lip and a hell of a bad mood. “Get her in the fucking chair and get me that fucking book.” He turned away from your knocked out form, slumped against the back of the mind chair. “We have work to do.”

 

-

 

The Winter Soldier stood in the centre of one of the huge gyms, his shadow long and thin, stretched over the polished wooden floors. He wondered if this was one of the ballet studios, it’s high decorative ceilings, windows that overlooked a beautiful forest, harsh Siberian winds and hints of snow on the horizon, temping winter. Bucky shuttered thinking of winter, the coldness, snow and ice, biting skin, stealing limbs.

 

Why was he there? Why was he alone? The guards didn’t answer his questions, refused to acknowledge his words.

 

He wore battle gear, cast in a funeral black and pressed tightly to his muscled form, clad with padding and hard protective pieces, thick armour with flexibility at the joints, heavy combat boots laced up his shins, a fingerless glove covered his flesh hand, the metal was left out to shine. They fitted him for a mask, and a snug black fabric was pulled over his head to cover his neck, blended into the mask. Without the goggles, his piercing eyes would he the only things visible to the rest of the world. Bucky felt powerful, knew that others seeing him in the gear, they would fear him.

 

For many people in the future, that would be the last thing they see.

 

A monster.

 

-

 

Your body hummed, energetic as you were being lead down the halls, chains dangled at your wrists, mask sealed to your skin, blended in with the combat gear. Your mind in a fog, dazed over.

 

They said the words, they imbedded your skin, wrapped around your head, a vice. You went under their control, alert and ready to comply with any order given, bloody or brutal, it wouldn’t matter to you, it was all the same.

 

Red clouded your vision, seeped into your mind and took over what little control you had over yourself.

 

Corporal Karpov walked beside you, his jaw set, a muscle ticking in his forehead. He made a mistake, didn’t secure her properly, made a mess of a lab all because she was stronger than he thought. He knew he’d have to tell Panarin, or even get in contact with HYDRA somehow. He turned his worry to anger, gripping your arm in one strong hand while the other held a stunner, alive with electricity. Another guard held your other arm, tugged the Killer along the corridor, avoiding looking at her darkened eyes.

 

“You go in there,” Karpov talked quickly, pressing a key to the lock pad near a tall door. “You go in a fight. Teach the asset a lesson.”

 

“Да сэр.” [Yes sir.]

 

Karpov lead you down another hall, past a room of doctors surrounded by machinery. They avoided the gaze of the assailant, who’s empty eyes flicked to each person in the room as she past. A very young girl sat upon a bed, dressed in a hospital gown, her wispy blonde and tangled hair hanging over her eyes as she stared at the Killer, wrapped in chains, weighted down in blackness. A doctor snapped something and she looked away from you, frightened.

 

That is your job, no? To scare, to torture? You were on your way to compete a mission, to show exactly who was in control.

 

“He is through these doors. We will be watching. Are you ready?” Karpov spoke as though you had a choice, a say in the matter of what you wished to do with your power, your compliance, your weakness.

 

The Killer breathed deeply, flexed her fingers diligently, her face kept of emotion, stoic and blank. “Готовы соблюдать” [Ready to comply.]

 

The chains fell from her arms and wrists with a heavy clang, rattled down, pooled around her boots. She waited silently as they unbuckled thick straps from her straightjacket, released her body from the constricted fabric. The guard patted her down for weapons.

 

When he found none, the man nodded to Karpov, who glanced at you, silent and unmoving. A statue of shadow. Karpov slid his I.D badge over the keypad, the flashing light flicked from blood red to a bright green, and the door rumbled open.

 

Karpov had one last thing to do. He stepped up behind the Killer, his chest brushed against her back, head bent to whisper in her ear delicately. “Heil HYDRA,”

 

You remained unmoving, unaffected by the words, activated once more.

 

-

 

The door slammed open. Bucky, startled, whipped around to face the intruder, his metal hand instinctively going to his side, where a weapon would be. But, as planned, he held no weapons on his gear. To defend himself, all Bucky would have is a sharpened mind. Something you taught him that that is all he needed to win a battle; not strength, plans, agility. “What are you —“

 

Words could have been your trigger, as he spoke you propelled towards him, your ears filled with the orders. Teach him who is in control. Take back what HYDRA created. You stopped, frozen in your place, watching The Winter Soldier. In a mind controlled state, your vision blurred in and out, swept around in a whirlwind of confusion. You had no body, only invisible force, you were afloat, limp body held by the masters puppet strings, twisted and jerked into position.

 

The Killer was two feet from the soldier, silent and watching.

 

Bucky stepped back, solicitous, cautious of how you held yourself, tall and powerful, stealing all the light in the room. “What’s wrong?”

 

His soft voice, angled and persistent, struck something. You paused, as if waiting for the soldiers words to settle around you, dust on the battle grounds. “Вы.” [You] The mask vibrated around you, halting your speech.

 

“Me? I don’t —“

 

Pain suddenly blinded him, half his face and jaw seems to be on fire. Bucky ducked down, his arm coming to block any other blow. It couldn’t be, did you just hit him? He looked up, squinted through his closed eye, burning with pain. You were still approaching, hands shaking before closing into a fight fist.

 

You took a powerful step towards him and shoved both his shoulders, forcing him to catch his footing before he fell. Come on, come on, come on. The words rang through your head, heated by the control, the power the serum gave your body. His flesh hand reached out, gesturing to wait, he desperately needed a second, just a moment, to think and prepare.

 

What was the plan? To suddenly have you become a part of his destruction?

 

Your hand came down and smacked his away, then the force of your shoulder finally shoved him to the ground, he landed heavily on his metal shoulder, it sent a dull shock through his system, a spasm in his back and neck.

 

“Get up.” The Killer said, stalking around him slowly. A dreadful game of cat and mouse, teasing, bloody.

 

“You need, you need to stop.” Bucky pulled himself to his feet, with a groan he rolled his metal shoulder back, forced the plates to shift and buzz. “This a new training thing?”

 

You didn’t answer, silent as the walls around you. Advancing towards him, you forced him to step backwards, leaving the bright centre of the room. He managed to avoid your kick, dodged out of the way by turning quickly to the side. The room seemed to tilt, the very ground you walked upon crumbled beneath your boots.

 

He stopped talking, focusing on avoiding you. You became almost robotic, stiffened movements, kept of emotion, driven by brutal force, rage, something twisted. He couldn’t land a hit, you avoided the blows and strikes as through it was a childhood game of boxing. She toyed with him, eyes alight with red and burned with blackened fury.

 

Bucky didn’t know what it was, something was wrong with you. You weren’t there, your eyes, normally bright and alive, had become dull and kept of energy. The room around the soldiers tainted them, watched happily as they danced in battle.

 

Her ability, combined with sickening strength provided with his refusal to hurt her, made it easy for the Killer to hurt him, to repeatedly take him down and win, again and again.

 

His knuckles soon bled, jaw burned with a blooming purple bruise and a cut lip. He didn’t want to hurt you, he wanted you to talk, to see you, the beautiful girl he swore he would see again.

 

All that was on your mind was to destroy the soldier. You gripped his metal wrist, jerked his tall form  closer to you, if you had a blade it would have been imbedded between his ribs, twisted and soaked in blood. Your elbow drove into his sternum instead, forcing him down to your height. He caught your forearm, looped his metal hand under his other, successfully entrapping you in the same move you once taught to him. You were so close, he felt your heart rapidly beating against his chest, he smelt the blood on your hands, could hear the roaring fire within you.

 

He watched, breathing heavily as you struggled to break free, you kicked his shin, bucked up into his grip on your arms. Frustration swarmed your brain, blotched up your logic, you didn’t know why he had you trapped, stunned, unmoving. Was it his eyes, so ocean blue you feared one could drown if they looked a second two long? Or was it the way you seemed to fit together, warm bodies made to connect, if not through battle than perhaps something else. You shifted, body unsure of how to react.

 

Bucky’s arm shifted, the metallic plates locked, you wouldn’t be able to break the grip. He had you, safe, secure, unable to harm yourself or him.

 

Bucky said the name.

 

“Don’t.” She struggled in his arms. “Don’t say that.”

 

You saw an opening. You dropped, dead weight, surprised the soldier; using that you managed to get your leg between your bodies and shove. At the exact moment you wrenched yourself from his grip, gritting your teeth at the effort you broke past the metal grip on your arm and kicked The Winter Soldier away.

 

Using that moment you swung your hand out, aimed perfectly for another jaw-breaking right hook. You would hit him, then take him down with a twist of the stupid metal arm under your leg.

 

But with a metallic grind and a mix of swears, the soldier stopped your punch.

 

He said you name, broken by a soft gasp of pain, strained in effort to hold your arm back, his own shook, threatening to give way.

 

“Stop. Saying. That. Name.” You growled, ripped your arm away from him and advanced closer with each word, followed by a hit. He blocked them easily, metal arm pinging off your strikes, his eyes never leaving your face. He caught your forearm and held you, frozen in place, the world around him paused. His eyes told you that he was putting together the pieces to a puzzle you didn’t remember.

 

“Just wait — shit,” he nearly choked, your body rapidly turned and drove a knee up into his ribs, knocked his lungs free of air. He let you go, a hand over his bruised ribs. 

 

You stepped back, eyes free of emotion, blind to his pain. You launched forwards, landed a twirl and a sidekick, aimed to knock him flying to the ground.

 

In an instant he grabbed your leg and stopped you, pressing you to him, the metal plates in his arm shifted and tensed, locked your leg to his side. You grunted angrily, attempting to swivel around close enough to land a hit.

 

“S-stop,” you struggled, frustration boiled over your skin.

 

"No,  _you_ stop." He whispered, pleaded, words bent with emotion. You leaned back, tried to headbutt him, nearly loosing your balance.

 

He stopped you from painfully breaking his nose and gripped you tightly, with a sweep of his foot and a heavy, whirring shove with his metal arm you landed heavily on the mat, jarring your shoulder. It provided a moment for Bucky to step out of your strike zone. “Just  _listen_ to me,”

 

You were up in and instant. His words angered you, making you rough with your blows, you hurt him; landed punches that would break human bones, crumble them beneath the skin. But the damage wasn’t enough. He was too strong. Stronger than you. Maybe he made you weak. He had you caught momentarily, making your mind cloud over with confusion. You kicked him, followed by an elbow blow to his metal hand.

 

"It’s  _me_."

 

“Shut up!” A yell ripped through your throat, raw and human, breaking the noises of battle. You dropped your hands, allowing them to tremble, your muscles riddled with adrenaline. “Just shut up.” You murmured, shattering, a body of glass scattered over the polished wood.

 

Bucky’s nose steadily dripped blood, his cheekbones cut and bruised, marks of your anger and aggression brought on by activation. Fuel created by monsters. He was certain a rib was bruised, his flesh hand could be sprained, the pain hadn’t set in just then. He would be your masterpiece, body painted black and blue.

 

He tugged his mask down, breathed in the fresh air, smelling of sweat and rustic blood. Evidence of a battle. “You know me, doll.” He was solum, watching you.

 

The Killer was so far gone, lost in the darkness, beaten down and bleeding, only a glimpse of her sorrow, forgotten soul lay in the light; and Bucky was desperately trying to find it, scrape it from the dirt, shape it back into a human form.

 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” his tender voice struck the cords of your heart, and you felt the walls begin to crack, to crumble down around you. “I don’t ever wanna hurt you, promise.”

 

Bucky knew she couldn’t stop, the Red Room had put her under, zapped her from consciousness. He would give her what they wanted. She overpowered him, rough and powerful, she managed to tackle him, force him to the ground.

 

“I know who you are." You whispered, jerkish movements pinned his arm down, the metal one crushed under your boot, one knee held him down, the padding of your armour dug into his chest. You were bent over him, hair falling over your faces. His eyes, grey and blue at the same time, they were staring into your soul.  _You knew them. You know him. You know him._

 

Stop it! Your mind screamed in your ears. Your fist pulled back so far you felt a sting of muscle in your shoulder, ready to spring forward and break his jaw with your fist. 

 

"Look at me," Bucky said, his tone soft. He said your name. Your real name.

 

The Killers position faltered, hand came loose from the fist. He had opened the door, slipped between the cracks of mind control, your vision swirled around you, a memory attempting to break through the hard walls. Your body relaxed, became aware of his under yours, muscle and bone, battle gear and blood. He was so warm, soft, even under the bulletproof and blackness; he was real. It was real when you caught a glimpse of a frozen body back in Germany, it was real when you designed an arm that would fit perfectly to his broken body, it was real, the day you snuck into his cell, watched him suffer. It was real when he held you, fingertips pressed into your skin, afraid to let go or he would be carried away by the reaper; for he wanted to die. But you kept it from it, opened his cell door, allowed a slip of light to appear. You spoke his activation words, shakily they fell from your lips, danced through the air and clamped around his mind.

 

If that was all real, had you only imagined seeing Bucky Barnes before the fall? Had it been a slideshow of emotions, hell bent on making your life all the more confusing, deteriorating, exhausting.

 

Could it have been real life?

 

The urge to sob welled up, blocked the air in your lungs. You looked down, down at the soldier, bloody and defeated. The mind control was slipping away, you no longer saw the enemy. 

 

You saw a young man in a new soldiers uniform, half cast in a hazy light, a small smile playing with his lips.

 

You gasped, wretched from the memory as the tall doors slammed open. Karpov burst in, guards at his side. “Хватит, soldier!” [Enough!]

 

As though his words controlled you, your body and mind, your muscles seemed to whirl back into life, activated once more. The generals words whispered to you, beckoned you again. Your fist pulled back, shaking, clenched tightly, muscles right and ready to spring. The worlds sound vanished from its place around you, your vision red.

 

A surge of energy overtook you and your fist surged forwards.

 

Everything went black.

 

Bucky flinched, one arm snapped up to cover his face. A heavy slam and splintering sound nearly burst out his eardrum. The Killer, a last sign of rebellion, had struck the floor, inches from the Winter Soldiers head. The wood was chipped, broken and splintered, stained with blood, dented with a last mark of her power.

 

And she had vanished.

 

-

 

Your whole body shook, hot sweat soaked your shirt, glistened over your forehead, cheekbones and nose. Your stomach swirled, gut tearing itself into pieces, making your mouth dry as you sucked in air as fast as you could.

 

A wicked migraine worked itself into the front of your head, making the white lights strain on your eyes, burning your body, smoke and steam rising from your skin.

 

God, it hurt so bad.

 

Without warning, the chair that held you as you awaited your de-activation unlatched the bounds that held you by your shoulders, arms and thighs released you to the ground, where you only caught yourself with your hands, legs still felt as though they had been sawed off. You coughed, a steady urge to vomit still in your system.

 

With a trembling hand you wiped your mouth, gingerly skimmed over the split lip, swollen and purple under the skin. You coughed again, sunk to the floor, head resting against the cold marble, soothing the throbbing pain.

 

De-activation was nearly as bad as the fights whilst activated, a long drawn out process built of pain and forced suffering. Meant to control you, bend and mould you to fit into the plans of the wicked. It was them, their doctors and labs that made you the way you are.

 

Your fall through HYDRA was not accidental. You were chosen for the damned.

 

Chosen to become an experiment, tortured, abandoned by your family, forced to find your own family within yourself. The memory of your father leaving you in that lab so many years ago still brought up that sickening feeling.

 

They left you, forgot about you.

 

With a soft groan you pulled yourself up, scooting back to lean against the mind chair, sighing as the cool metal seemed to soak into your skin.

 

Barnes didn’t forget you.

 

That thought became interrupted, the lab door slammed opened, drawing your attention to the opposite side of the room. You tried to stand to attention, but the room tipped and and swayed, blurred at the edges.

 

“Please,” a deep, German accented voice filled the room, slow and dripping with ego, “don’t try to stand.”

 

You got up anyway, forcing the sore muscles to work. Unsteady, you kept a hand on the chair. Blinking a few times, you stared at the intruder.

 

No. “Hugo?” 

 

“Nice to hear my name, coming from you.” He smiled, stepped into the light with a soft smile, he wore a red and black uniform.

 

“Fuck you.” You pushed yourself up, slamming into the chair, twisted it on its side. You groaned, arms sore and tight, burning at the sudden movement.

 

Hugo Venn had volunteered to bring you back to your cell, seeing as how they all saw you become unstable during the fight with the Winter Soldier. If puzzled them, and Panarin requested you go under during training operations more often. But for now, you were to rest. “Here,” Hugo extended his tattoo covered hand, offering his help. “Let me—“

 

You smacked his hand away weakly. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I am here for you, Killer.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“That is what you are, no? Not the sweet little girl from Germany, or even HYDRA’s little pet.” Hugo squatted down to your level, darkened eyes alive with a wickedness that caused a shiver to ripple over your skin.

 

“Get away from me.”

 

His hand reached out, through the darkness, to touch your shoulder, a thought of comfort, to subside your suffering. Your body still shook, dreadful tremors of exhaustion, skin slicked with perspiration. Your eyes snapped to his as your hand closed around his wrist, tugged and found his grip firm and unmoving.

 

“What do you want?” You hissed, blinking through the lights, his tall form blocked them out for the most part, but a strip of light shone over his shoulder, a beacon of heaven.

 

He suddenly gripped your other arm and hauled you to your feet. Hugo’s eyes dragged over your battered body, his bottom lip trapped under his teeth. “I want you to know something, my dear.”

 

Despite your disgust, you held his arm, dizzy and afraid you would collapse if he wasn’t holding you. Your mind spun, he couldn’t be there, he couldn’t have gotten transferred to Russia, to the exact base, with you.

 

You hated him, his cruelty, vileness, his entire being.

 

And yet, he never stopped pursuing you. Even back in Germany, he would say things, promise to you that one day, one day you would be his.

 

You suddenly realized the danger you were in. There were no other guards around, the viewing room lights were off, empty. Karpov was no where to be seen. Even Panarin, or Barnes. God, you wished he was there.

 

“What do you want me to know?” You shoved his hands away, regained your posture, pushed the sick feeling down into your gut.

 

“I want you to know,” Hugo turned, began to lead you towards the exit, “that I spoke to sargent Barnes.”

 

The sickening feeling swelled. “Why should I care?”

 

“I merely told him of our time in Germany.” Hugo Venn stopped you at the door, an arm blocking the way. “That he should never trust a lying, pathetic whore.”

 

“That’s right. I wouldn’t dare trust you.” You snapped, bitter and sarcastic.

 

A hand slammed into the wall, forcing your body to flinch, aftershocks of the de-activation left your reflex’s timid. Hugo, his attractive features darkened with anger, looked down at you. “I wouldn’t be making jokes, Killer. He knows your history, he knows who you are.”

 

Barnes’ voice, soft and deep, echoed through your mind, the way he said your name. You looked down, hiding a small smile. “You’re lying, I’ve not told him anything of my past.”

 

“You should know,” Hugo bent to whisper in your ear, his arm keeping you trapped against the wall. “I got to him first.”

 

“What did you —” your brightened eyes burned into Hugo’s, alive with anger. The pin dropped, a pinging sound of realization between your ears. He told Barnes your name. Knew it was a weakness of yours, wanted you to hurt him, drive the blade of distrust further between Sargent Barnes and you.

 

Between Bucky, and you.

 

“Fuck you,” without warning you acted, shot an elbow up, directly stuck Hugo’s jaw, his head snapped backwards, giving you a moment to use the force of both hands to shove, at the same moment you kicked out and jerked his left knee to the side, twisted it painfully. He yelled as his knee joint slipped out of place, unaware of a blow going straight to his ear, knocking his hearing out for a second. He crashed to the ground from the force of your multiple hits, bleeding and bruised.

 

He tried to prop himself up but was kicked down again, roughly and unmercifully. “Seems as though we always end up here, yes?” You smiled, thinking back to in Germany, he commented about Barnes and you attacked him right there, unafraid of the consequences. “Spread one more word about me and I will kill you, understand?”

 

You straitened up, the raging storm that we’ll up subsided, leisurely turned back into a forced calm state. “I’ll find my own way back to my cell.”

 

And you left the room, locked the tall door behind you with quick press of a button and began to make your way through the dark maze of halls.

 

Determined to set things right with the Winter Soldier.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words: 7722
> 
> thank u so so so much for reading!!!
> 
> as always, comments keep me goin’ and i love reading them (also re-reading when i need motivation to write). so big thx if you comment! i actually love you 10x more <3


	14. what we once were

—

 

**— Russia, Red Room Academy • 1945**

 

You felt triumphant, exhilarated, as you walked freely down the darkened halls, no guards gripping your arms, nuzzles of guns or stunners dug into your skin, no traces of medication to sedate you inside your veins. No swooping headache borne of activation; you were free.

 

Hugo Venn’s seething words and harsh actions towards you had stroked the steadily rising panic and anxiety within you, an emotion you had been feeling more often, and one you disliked with a burning passion.

 

Though you had to rush, Hugo Venn, as weak and pathetic he may seem to you, he coped with injury much better than most, and would soon somehow break out of the de-activation chamber and be either after you, intent on repaying the bruises, or sounding some blaring alarm, reviving the forces to track you down, toss you back into isolation.

 

Your body hurt, muscles sore and stiff. Walking became a pain, Sargent Barnes’ cell seemed to be miles upon miles away.

 

What did he think of you?

 

Did he see through the control, past the coldness and reddened vision, blocking your mind from yourself, fuelling only your body, built and made for destruction? Or did he now see what you really were, a monster?

 

When you clenched your fists, the tendons hurt, sore and shaky. Had you hurt him that badly? Were you even going to find him alone in that cell? Or after the battle, when you had been dragged away, had he been taken down to the medics wing, hidden and locked away from you, promised the Killer wouldn’t hurt him anymore?

 

You turned and corner and paused, thinking of him. His voice, soft of the edges, deep and comforting. The way he said that name, so sadly and promising.

 

The anger that burned through you was not directed at him, HYDRA or the Red Room; it was directed at yourself. Shame, burning hot and crippling settled over your heart, attached chains that pulled your grieving soul downwards, into the darkness.

 

You told him you could you protect him, save him and make sure he would never be one of them.

 

And yet you hurt him. Your soldier.

 

You jogged down a sloping corridor, your skin shivering with the growing coldness. The cruel ironic ness of his confinement being down below the academy in the most frozen part of the cells angered you even more. The lights were more dim, blackened with dust and grime, not cared enough about to be cleaned, or broken ones replaced.

 

Blood was stained on the floor, the air smelt of rot and a mix of foul things humans shouldn’t be inhaling. The guards that patrolled that cell block where trained to protect maximum security, professional in the art of slaughter and take down.

 

You were close to the new cell, two more turns and through a set of thick steel doors you would be closer to Barnes.

 

You hadn’t been down there since the night you were on orders to say the words, the night you held him close, ran your hands over his broad back. You recalled that feeling, an arise of an emotion, tangled and snared but very much real.

 

Affection, care, comfort.

 

Then you had abandoned that, as thought it was a flip of a switch with Karpov’s words, you could have killed Barnes without a second thought.

 

If he hadn’t spoke your name.

 

You remembered seeing through the fog, stripping yourself from the control, cutting the ties with the Red Rooms strings. They were sewn deep inside you, your connection with Barnes went deeper that than.

 

You had to see him. Make things right.

 

Would the soldier even look at you?

 

You were so close.

 

Then a light pinged on, the door at the end of the hall rumbled open, casting more white light to spill onto the floor, stretching your long shadow. You followed it until your eyes met the cold green ones of Corporal Karpov, his chest heaving and hair a mess, clearly he had been sprinting down the corridors, searching for you, half an army of guards behind him, heavy black riot gear adorned their bodies, stunners in their hands.

 

Fuck.

 

“Just intent on getting into shit, are you?” Karpov called, slamming the door open further, allowed some guards to block the exit as he walked towards you. “Attacking a new official, attempted escape,” he listed your crimes in a soft, teasing tone.

 

“I can explain.”

 

“And after that stunt you pulled in the lab I should never have allowed you to train with Barnes.” Karpov shook his head, furious at you and himself, he would have major explaining to do to Director Panarin, HYDRA and the warden of the Killer’s cellblock. He knew the task of handling the Winter Soldier programme would be difficult, straining, backbreaking work, he thought he prepared. But Vasily Karpov was mistaken, you had an uncontrollable fire that allowed you to never submit to his rules, his orders. Barnes was bad enough, killing Fights and ending training with others severely injured.

 

Karpov needed a win. Or he was out.

 

He stared at you, standing in the hall, mask gone and hair a mess, skin broken and bruised, beautiful and deadly. Karpov saw a soldier, a killer, but he did not see an ally. He never trusted you, never would. He would have to speak to Panarin, explain how he thinks the Killer shouldn’t be allowed free rein of the base, that you’re deadly, cunning and an extremely powerful being.

 

It was time you were taken down a notch.

 

You chewed your bottom lip, planning your way out of the current mess, all you wanted was to see Barnes, figure out your past with him, why you felt a connection, deep within yourself. “I —”

 

“Don’t bother, soldier.” Karpov snapped his fingers, in an instant three huge guards advanced towards the Killer, who remained calm, unnerved at the sight of the men’s weapons. One went down, a sickening crunch of his arm and the stunner was in her hand, thrown to the ground, skidding from anyone’s reach. Karpov jerked his head, the rest of them moved, stepping over their fallen comrades unconscious bodies.

 

You made certain not to kill any more guards.

 

Finally, one managed to twist your arm back and force you into the wall, your chest and side of your face pressed tightly to the coldness, the brick scraped your cheek, blood beaded out. You struggled, jerking your body in their hard grip.

 

“Which act shall we inflict punishment on? Or should you spend a month in isolation, my dear?”

 

“Go, go to hell,” you managed, struggling against the heavy hands pushing your body into the wall. You panted, hair blowing in your face as it came loose around your head, blurring your vision.

 

“General Venn is spending the night in medical, he is severely injured and will miss an important mission.” Karpov scolded you, tone deep and threatening. He jerked his hand and the guards complied, you were pulled from the wall and rounded to face the fuming Corporal. “Don’t speak.” He snapped as you opened your mouth to insult Hugo Venn.

 

You should have killed him.

 

They began to lead you the opposite direction from Barnes’ cell, dragging your heavy form down the dark corridor, the shadows manipulated by the bodies struggling to keep you from breaking free of their harsh grasp. Your muscles tensed, body going ridged, forcing the men to get a proper grip on you, stumbling in effort.

 

“Подождите[wait]!” Your hoarse voice broke through the air, followed by a sharp slap, a guard hit you across the face, forcing a surprised sound to escape you lips, followed by a bead of dark blood. “I just need to see him,” 

 

Karpov sensed hints of begging in your tone, melted with grief and sorrow. His lip curved into a small smirk, he shook his head. He stepped around a guard on your left, avoided the droplets of blood and faced you. “Why, to nearly kill him as well?”

 

You shook your head, afraid to speak.

 

Karpov gripped your jaw tightly in a gloved hand, forced you to look into his angry green eyes, bottled emotion, a sea, unlike Barnes’ softness, it was a storming green sea, one that would break battle ships, end lives. “Silence. That is what I thought.”

 

He stepped out of the way once more, and you were dragged away, kept of a struggle, head hung. You just needed to see him, connect the ghosts of your past.

 

-

 

You were slouched in the chair, anger buzzing over your form, making the doctor and nurses shuffle nervously around you, delicately pricking your skin with minuscule needles, wiping down the areas with a stinging alcohol solution. Your eyes, blackened with bruises, were drawn down, glowering at the floor, scanning the doctors and nurses shoes as they moved around you.

 

“Begin the attachment,” the doctor instructed a nurse, fiddling with a heart monitor, a big machine that drew lines on a long printing piece of paper, tracing your heart beats and blood pressure.

 

The doctor, Lyaksandr Quinet, was one who has invented the mind chairs, spent years testing theories and slaving over HYDRA’s advanced technology, then he was hired for a lab researcher, a main technician in the creation of the Memory Suppressor Machine, his cruel intentions and evil achievements would make him world famous, or criminally guilty.

 

Lyaksandr Quinet was worth millions, the trick was to guess whether it was dollars or bloodshed he was rich with. 

 

He found if he didn’t look at the subject, you, directly, he would only see you as a test, an experiment.

 

The heavy hands of the M.S.M lowered with a grinding whine, the straps tightened around your biceps, forcing them down.

 

As the machine whirred to life, you began to shake with fear, breaths rattled in your lungs, fuelling the panic within you. Sweat beaded from your pores, slicked your shivering skin.

 

“We’ve had instruction to have additional braces for her, sir. She broke free from the last activation machine.” A nurse gently spoke, her eyes fixed on you, biting the inside of her cheek nervously, a habit she picked up while in the lab with the subject.

 

Doctor Quinet brushed past the nurse with a small smile. He walked up to you, peered into your face, a curiosity filled look in his eyes. You didn’t move, frozen to the chair you waited for him to speak, to hit you, do something rather than stare into your eyes, judge you, tear under your conscience.

 

He was a different doctor, had background in psychology, sociology, the humanities. He could study you for years, and barely scratch the surface of what they’ve done to you.

 

“великолепный[magnificent],” he spoke, soft, as if not not startle you. Such a creation, a weapon of beauty, brilliance; and so easy to control.

 

“I want—” your voice came out harsh, raspy and tough on your throat. You sighed, cleared your throat, mouth shut tightly. You tried again. “I want to,” you paused, thinking over the words, “I want to see him,”

 

Doctor Quinet and the nurse exchanged looks. “Who do you want to see, my dear?”

 

At the use of a pet name you became cold, eyes drawn down, your fury undetectable in your blank expression. The Doctor shook his head, disappointed the subject refused to further her words, for he wished to document what little she spoke.

 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” the man spoke, he turned and picked up a small mouthpiece, used to prevent clenching the jaw during the memory suppression. You shook your head and opened your mouth, bit down on the odd tasting material, your body naturally tensing as nerves began to build.

 

“No? Alright,” he stepped back and allowed the machines arms to lower until the hands, cold and hard, close around half your face, like two broken puzzle pieces, shifting until they fit.

 

The lab technicians, nurses and the Doctor watched as the chair jerked back, the arms locked into position, and the machine began the extraction.

 

The screams echoed through the lab.

 

-

 

Bucky unloaded the clip of a heavy machine gun into the wall, feeling as though he could control at least one thing in that moment, the way the bullets hit the walls with perfection, the aim precise, he had learned from the best.

 

He paused, breathing in the smell of gun powder, his eyes naturally closing as his imagination overtook him, he wished you were beside him, telling him he was shooting the target the wrong way, the way he held it with the metal arm was terrible; he could picture you speaking, in your quiet but strict voice.

 

He missed you. He missed the forgotten moments he once had with you.

 

Bucky turned away from the targets, tossed the empty gun on the artillery table and scooped up a small handgun, within three seconds the safety was clicked off, and a bullet shot through the air, followed by an echoing bang as it embedded inside the furthest wall, right dead centre.

 

The sound caused a ripple of pain to go over his head, starting up yet another migraine.

 

He paused, feeling sick, the floor seemed to sway under his feet, the walls pulsing around him. With a loud crash his metal hand slammed onto the table, grinding in effort to keep his body from collapsing.

 

In an instant guards surrounded him, forced him to his feet. The main general appeared, cold greg eyes stared the soldier down. The bearded man scoffed, shaking his head. He’s seen all the symptoms within the Red Room thousands of times. 

 

“Starving yourself out, eh?” He asked, taking the gun from Bucky’s flesh hand, it was not a struggle, the soldier was nearly limp in the guards arms.

 

“I don’t want to be in there,” Bucky spoke of the new isolation cell he had resided in for weeks, away from you, the normal guards and other soldiers. His Russian was starting to get better, he was finally fluent in the language after nearly a year being a captive of the Red Room.

 

“I don’t give a shit,” the huge guard roughly pulled Bucky around to face him and his equally frightening comrades, who all were trained to, if needed, stop and kill the Winter Soldier on sight. He clamped a pair of heavy cuffs tightly around both wrists, stowed the key in his pocket, watchful of Barnes’ sharp eyes following the placement of the key. “You’re going straight down to medical where they’ll sort you out.”

 

Soldiers refusing to eat or sleep was a common form of strike, one that harmed both sides, unequally, but the loss of a soldier ruined missions and derailed task forces. So the Red Room created strict rules, ones that should never be disobeyed, always eat, or you will be taken down to medical and forced to retain injections of the proper nutrients in order to keep the subjects alive.

 

“Отлично! Я в порядке. [Fine! I’m fine.]” Bucky managed, he struggled in the cuffs, his vision leaving him with blurred lines and blackout spots.

 

Something hard struck him across the ear and jaw, forcing a shrill ring to surround the air around him. The guard who hit him dragged him away from the shooting rang, and along with three other guards they began to make their way out of the shooting wing.

 

“You’ll be fine once they get you shot up with proper food, then I’ll be here t’toss your ass in isolation; I don’ care what kinda German soldier boy you are.” The general of the guards mocked the Winter Soldier as he was lead away.

 

-

 

Bucky’s blood was sluggish in his veins, slowing down his moment as they made the way down to medical, his head pounded, reverberations of pain repeatedly circled his brain, tracked down his neck.

 

Maybe he didn’t want to be better, perhaps he had lost you for good, you had vanished, closed the door on him.

 

The medical hall was deathly silent, so silent it felt wrong to enter the wing, as if you were to disrupt or distract the quietly invisible ghosts that reside in the dark, horror stained halls.

 

The lights blinked red, cast an eerie shadow over Bucky’s body as they got closer to the room. Bucky knew what the lights were for.

 

A soldier was being extracted.

 

But the screaming had stopped.

 

They passed the long viewing window, Bucky stared, though the redness of the blaring lights stung his tired eyes, he was desperate to catch a glimpse, grasping at a last hint of hope that it possibly could be you inside the lab, not miles away, frozen in ice, dead to the world.

 

Thirty feet from where Barnes watched through the window, the mind chair jerked back into place, your body slammed down, trembling and shaking, a leaf in the bitter autumn wind, drenched in icy sweat. Your hair was stuck to your forehead, eyes fluttering open and closed, sore and red, your jaw ached, muscles tired and on the brink of stretching to a snap as you screamed until your throat became hoarse, lungs spent.

 

Words and pictures, scenes from your last month or two were raked into a messy pile in the centre of your mind, the gate nearly closing, ready to shut them all away, locked under countless shields, unavailable to you. Your memories became a sticky mess, splattered over the canvass of your life, your work, fragments of information, shatters of faces and brings you once knew.

 

You spit out the mouth guard, coughing as your mouth filled with fresh saliva, mixed with the copper taste of blood.

 

Doctor Quinet peered into your eyes, his slender face terribly close to your own, blocking the sight of three guards and a tall soldier entering the lab. “What do we remember?” He questioned gently, unsure of what response he could receive, the mind was most fragile at the ending point of memory suppression or extraction. You could say the name of your mother, or rattle off battle formations used in the war, recite a list of your kills or name your childhood best friend.

 

The mind was a funny thing.

 

When you refused to answer, he stepped away from you, looking down at his notes. Was she always this silent? He was certain the Killer was known for becoming violently vocal before and after lab trips, he read reports of her attacking the employees, murdering the doctors that tortured her.

 

But you remained silent, processing information as you stared at nothing. A shell of a human, kept of basic emotion and life.

 

“Have we gone too far?” The meek nurse questioned, looking around as the techs and doctors watched the soldier, your red rimmed, blacked eyes dull and empty.

 

“Lets give her a moment, yes?” Quinet answered. He turned to see the guards accompanied by the Winter Soldier, who’s cold expression could murder anyone in the room, if the man so desired. The air the soldier gave off was laced with anger, dripping with power.

 

“We have instruction to take W17 through to medical.” A guard spoke, watching you apprehensively.

 

At the sound of the new voice you lifted your head, tired eyes focusing on the newcomers. Your heart leapt, body jerked in the chair as you realized Barnes stood not barely ten feet away from you. He’s here.

 

The sight of him brought on a heavy wave of recognition, layered with all the forbidden emotions you worked so achingly hard on pushing down. The way he stood, his features, his ocean blue eyes, they all told you you’ve seen him before, the man before the soldier. Your breaths came in short gasps, noting Doctor Quinet of some form of alertness coming from his new subject. Barnes, Barnes is here.

 

You watched, unable to move or speak as a nurse directed the guards and soldier towards the left side of the wing, through a set of doors and down to medical. Your hands tensed on the arms of the mind chair, gripping them in effort to call out, to tell him you’re there, that you’re okay, you are sorry.

 

“1942,” you murmured, your body sunken into the chair, too exhausted to lean and watch Barnes be lead away, fighting the guards to look back at you, pain swimming in his eyes.

 

“What did she say?”

 

“19...42,” you blinked, confused at your own words. You looked up at the Doctor, as if asking for help. “New York,” you whispered, voice barely hanging off your trembling lips. “I was in New York,”

 

“You have been to America many times, soldier, New York is definitely one of your past missions.” Quinet sighed, disappointed once more, you were only reliving a mission, not unlocking a part of the forbidden world HYDRA had sucked out of you.

 

You shook your head, brow gently furrowed. “I was with him,” the memory slowly stitched itself back together, the rusted clock rewound, fragments of time returned back, settled in its place. “I know,” you inhaled shakily, calming your quivering emotions, your stomach fluttered, fingertips seemed to burn. “I know him.”

 

_I remember._

 

-

 

“Doctor, what could have caused her to say all those things?” The shy nurse approached Doctor Quinet as he tidied his office, stacked papers and files, records of his years working for the Soviet Union. A glass of dry whiskey sat on the table. Quinet sighed as the nurse stared at it. He’d had a long day, and there wasn’t a time where he didn’t drink on the job.

 

“Read my books, that should answer your questions.”

 

“I have,” she said, a smile coming over her round face as the man before her arched his brow in surprise. “The way you described the memories...could you-”

 

“We think of memory as a bridge, a connection of the pathways, there could be many bridges, long or short,” the Doctor explained, his accented voice calm and intuitive. “Now bridges can bend, break a little or be destroyed all together. We have broken the centre of Subject K18, removed that section of her memories.”

 

“So why does she speak of a mission from years ago?”

 

“There are pillars, setting stones to a bridge, yes? Now, it could mean many things, it must be significant to her life, an importance, for it to stick with her this long. In twenty years, she could remember our conversation, given it emotionally impacts her in any way besides relating it to harm.”

 

The nurse nodded, understanding the process even further. “If the subjects were to relate anything to kindness, humanity, they could potentially recall that in the near future?”

 

“Like a trigger. I could say a name and the bridge in her mind would slowly rebuilt its self.”

 

“Subject W17, the Winter Soldier, talks about a man, Steve, could that have been a strong emotional connection?” The nurse wondered aloud, curiosity taking the better of her.

 

“Most likely, he won’t connect it, but the dots could very much still exist somewhere within his mind.” Quinet explained, walking around his desk to pick up a black an day white photograph of you, his eyes scanned your body, what a masterpiece you were, an art form of destruction. Beautiful.

 

“I wonder what she went through in New York to trigger such a reflection.” The nurse mused, folding the file back under her arm, ready to be returned to the archives. She found it incredibly fascinating, the control the Red Room had over such dangerous fighters. Weapons. She looked at the photo, a candid shot of you in a lab, back with HYDRA sitting atop a table, receiving the daily injections.

 

How similar you were to her, around the same height, age as well, most likely. In another world, you and she would be settled down, married or wishing on a lost lover from war. Perhaps gone off to further studies.

 

She wondered if you were human enough to become friends.

 

Quinet lead the nurse out of his office and back through the tall iron doors into the lab, where you were unconscious, ready to be shipped down back to your cell, locked away for a while, out of sight.

 

“Whatever it was, it was strong enough for her to remember the words, most of the time she’s too confused, cannot form the words she is thinking.” The doctor tentatively reached out and brushed a wisp of hair from your forehead, but quickly drew back his hand when you unconsciously flinched at the contact, still under the heavy sedation.

 

“That’s terribly sad,”

 

Doctor Quinet looked up, smiling. “It’s business.”

 

-

 

You woke, startled and finicking on the hard, metal sprung mattress, heavy blankets kicked off to gather dust from the cold floor.

 

Alone. Alone in a darkened cell, you were left to wait.

 

You’ve waited long enough, wondering in the dark hours, slips in time between missions and training, hidden thoughts and imagined stories. Finally, the truth had been revealed to you.

 

Once, months ago, Barnes has been an accomplice to your dreadful crime, a lure, a front. Who’s to blame an innocent young girl for murder when she’s entertaining a bright young soldier during the night? Who’s to guess she’s got blood on her hands, rather than love bites and messy hair?

 

Who was to guess they would see each other again?

 

You slipped from the bed, ignoring the creaking of the springs, walking fast towards the door. You know the security code, you can vanish from the cell and not a soul would see you or care if they did.

 

Barnes would be in his isolation cell, down under the cold ground. He would be frozen and scared, trapped in the dark. He knew, he remembered your face, said your name.

 

Determined you moved faster, only to be jerked back by your wrist, shoulder nearly ripped from its socket you stumbled before turning around to see a coil of chains slither along behind you, attached at your left wrist and bottom corner of the metal bed frame.

 

You hadn’t even noticed.

 

The metal dug into your skin, even through the black long sleeved shirt you wore, rubbing the [skin colour] skin nearly raw. You sighed, head lolling back to stare helpless at the grey ceiling as you pondered a new escape plan.

 

You had no open wounds at that moment in time, one that could produce enough warm and slippery blood to squeeze out of the cuffs, a move that had aided you in a hostage situation during a mission once. No secret addition to battle gear that unlocked cuffs.

 

“Fuck it,” as weak as you were, body still in recovery from the days extraction and the past fight you endured with Barnes, you were tired, muscles overworked, but you had to get out.

 

Braced against the wall, you wound the loose chain around your free hand, got a tight grip and strained to break free. You shook as the metal refused to budge, swearing as it dug further into your skin, the pain would start soon, but it would heal faster than a normal humans.

 

You wished you had a metal arm, Bucky would have been out of the chains in seconds, one snap of his hand and — you nearly tumbled from the ground, the chain snapped and landed with a loud clatter to the floor at your boots.

 

You stared for a moment at your swollen fingers and bruised wrist, waiting for the stinging pain to start up, but you noticed the healing was already taking place, warming your skin with a soft burning effect.

 

You were free. Time to get out.

 

The key code was punched in, and the door seemed to rumble open extra slowly, as if the world knew you were in a terrible rush. You had to guess it was the middle of the night, close to morning. There was only a few hours before the base was awoken, and a new day of hell would start.

 

You raced up the stairs, calming your battering heart with short breaths. The dark halls stretched for miles, lit with deep crimson lights, concrete walls that whispered to you.

 

The night watched the soldier girl steal through the base, her mask forgotten on her cell floor, cursed and tortured. The damp air around you urged you forwards.

 

You didn’t hear your echoing steps, your laboured breathing, heart pounding blood through your veins, mixed with serum and slowly poisoning you.

 

You saw the new soldier, his fresh uniform and cap to match, fingertips stained with nicotine and lips that would taste of alcohol. The packed bar in downtown Brooklyn, New York. You saw yourself class in that too tight black dress. The red lipstick stained to the rim of your shot glass. You smelt the cigarette smoke and sweaty dancing bodies, the air of lovers and excitement.

 

You remembered telling stories, laying next to a soldier boy, who’s smile was to die for and his hands did naughty things under the covers. What colour was the blanket? Light brown or blue? All you recalled was his hand playing with your hair as you painted a pretty picture of lies. Told him your plans for the future, after the war, of course; you wanted to pursue art, the study of humanity and history.

 

Maybe find out where it all went wrong.

 

You shook your head, feeling sick with shame. The new unlocked memories, raw in your mind, squeezed the last amount of hurt and confusion from within yourself.

 

It was over. Now time to make it better, lick your wounds of the past, maybe stitch them together again.

 

The world had paused, watching you approach the cell door, the cold greyness of it taunting you, whispering wicked things. 

 

You set a hand on the handle, bottom lip caught under your teeth, nearly split as you chewed nervously. Stepping closer you leaned your forehead to the door, relaxing as the coolness soothed your pounding headache.

 

1942, you were on the opposite side of the door, leaving his warm bed to steal across the street and slice open a victim of HYDRA. You had a chance to open the door, stay with him.

 

Quietly, as you had done so many times before, you slipped inside the Winter Soldiers cell, becoming one with the shadowy darkness.

 

“Barnes?”

 

“What’re you...” Bucky got up, his muscles sore and angry at his sudden movement, he walked to the centre of the cell, facing the Killer of HYDRA. He didn’t move, frozen in time, numb to the world around him, his only focus on you.

 

How breathtaking you were.

 

Your hands shook, tremors of nervousness and grief, the emotions tied to you and stuck, they had become a part of who you were with Bucky. In that moment you were not a soldier, a killer, you were a young woman, lost from all that she loves, one that just possibly, could grasp a chance that she could fix her problems.

 

The lighting in the cell cast an eerie shadow over the floor and walls, the darkness was creeping in. It would soon swallow you up, smother you into silence.

 

You couldn’t bare to be silent.

 

He saw you, cloaked in black, covering the marks of pain. A million forbidden emotions crushed the air from the room, seeped the coldness and dampness from the floor, all that existed in eternity were the soldiers.

 

Bucky was close, close enough you could set you hand on his metal arm, fingers wrapped around his cold wrist. He looked down at your hand intertwined with his, quietly, innocently confused. He couldn’t form the words, his voice had left him.

 

It’s okay, you desperately wanted to say, to promise you would never hurt him again. You tugged him closer, settled your other hand on his shoulder.  _It’s okay._

 

It wasn’t enough, not enough, not enough. The steady burning feeling swelled over and seemed to take over every aspect of the cell, blocking out the air, your lungs burned and you nearly felt you could collapse if something didn’t happen.

 

If you didn’t do anything.

 

Bucky’s eyes searched your face, silently beckoning you closer, he whispered your name. The soldier looked at you as though you were a thousand miles away.

 

Without a word you kissed him.

 

Soft, gentle; all things you weren’t on the outside. You drowned in the softness, the closeness of him, warm and real against your skin.

 

The act of intimacy, of chapped lips and gentle gasps, bruising and pressed in a beautiful way. It wasn’t perfect, the way your hands seemed to hold him too tightly, or the way he seemed to be short of breath, forgetting he needed oxygen rather than just your touch to survive.

 

His hands cradled your body close to his own, nearly crumbling your last piece of concrete walls made of closed off emotions and bitterness.

 

He ruined the facade, the soldier girl who was kept of love.

 

Bucky pulled away, only a fraction, his mind and body begging to connect with you once more. Your eyes were alight with magic, he knew then the stars would envy you. Your lips were close to his, warm breath fanned his face, you were searching for more, following him as he drew back.

 

He kissed you again, slower, shorter. Breathing hard through his nose as you captured his lips with yours. “Wait, wait,”

 

“It’s okay,” you murmured, words caught on your tongue, voice deepened with emotion. “Bucky, it’s okay,”

 

Please.  _I need this._

 

“I don’t want —“ He was unsure, what was this? The back of his mind a sick thought grew, fed by the Red Room’s control: was this a ruse? Were you told to enter his cell, kiss him and hold him close? He shook his head, as if to be rid of such a thought. “I want to know if this is  _real._ ”

 

His words pulled down a curtain of melancholy around you, drenched in regret.

 

“I am real,” you promised, pressed a hand to his cheek, finger tips brushing a cut over his cheekbone; that sting of pain was real, the warmth of your body was genuine, not made up.

 

Are you?

 

“Please don’t lie,” his voice broke, and you caught his breath in yet another kiss, less soft, more hard and damp, tongues and teeth. You were pulling away to whisper between the connections, rushing and bruising as if you were running from time, escaping reality.

 

“Bucky,”

 

“Please,” he tasted the lie on your tongue, the seduction of control.

 

“1942, New York; we were there. I remember,” you said, whispering against his burning skin, thinking back to New York, his body and yours, the passion thrown back and forth between the two, once innocent at the time, the lovers in their moment. “I remember what we once were.”

 

                          

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is much appreciated!


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